


Mirror

by InfamousGalaxy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Child Neglect, Dark Harry Potter, Drama, Gen, No Bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2019-11-24 06:31:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfamousGalaxy/pseuds/InfamousGalaxy
Summary: A decade ago James and Lily Potter made an extreme choice to protect their son. Now, Harry Potter enters the magical world and tries to make sense of his past to understand his future. Maybe he can avoid a cycle of mistakes. And out of sight, unbeknownst to most, looms a prophecy with strange ways to be fulfilled.





	1. The Secrets of Aunt Petunia

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will occur every two weeks.

Privet Drive number Four had four inhabitants. However, if you asked the neighbours, most of them would say that only three people lived there. Petunia and Vernon Dursley, and their son, Dudley. They were common people, the sort that you would find dozens of in that neighborhood. The fourth person who lived in the house was Harry Potter. He’d been seen few times by the neighbors, and although there was nothing really visibly different in him, he was distinct from his family. Quieter, perhaps. But there was more - not that most people would believe it. Besides, Petunia had always made sure that no one would know what was wrong with her nephew.

Minerva McGonagall knocked at the door. She wasn’t looking forward to meeting with the Dursleys, but the visit was her obligation as the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. Ten years ago, Petunia Dursley had not welcomed her nephew, and had treated Minerva with only the minimal politeness. If it were up for McGonagall, Harry Potter would have never been left with his maternal relatives. But, at the time of James’s and Lily’s imprisonment there had been no other option. Sirius Black was drowning away his sorrows in bottles of Ogden’s, and no family would want to adopt a child of known Death Eaters - and the ones who would were the very ones that they wanted to keep the boy away from.

The envelope in her hands read “The cupboard under the stairs”, and McGonagall wondered what that meant. As far as she knew it, keeping children in cupboards was not a common muggle custom.

The door was opened, and on the other side appeared a boy. Minerva had no doubt that he was the one she’d come for. The child looked a lot like another one that she had welcomed into Gryffindor many years ago.

“Yes?” the boy said.

“Mr. Potter,” Minerva said and paused. The boy frowned, but nodded. “I am Minerva McGonagall, a teacher from Hogwarts. I have come to speak to you and your relatives. May I come in?”

Harry hesitated, and then someone shouted from inside the house. “Tell them we don’t want to buy anything!” said a woman.

“Just a minute, please,” the boy told Minerva, “I’ll call my aunt,” and then he closed the door.

Minerva waited for a few minutes. She could hear voices inside the house, but couldn’t make out what was being said. After a moment of silence, the door was opened again, and a sour looking Petunia regarded her with disdain.

“Mrs. Dursley, I am Minerva McGonagall, if you remember. I was the one who accompanied Dumbledore when he brought Harry, ten years ago.”

“Yes, it’s you,” Petunia replied as her eyes ran over Minerva. “I remember. What do you want now?”

“I’ve come to bring Mr. Potter’s Hogwarts letter, naturally.”

Petunia snorted, and then opened the door wider. “Come in,” she said.

Minerva entered the house and took a look at the place. It looked like a nice house, as far as muggle houses were. There were a few portraits in the wall of the stairs. Pictures of Petunia, her husband, and a boy, who was probably their son - Minerva remembered that they had a boy of Harry’s age - but their nephew was nowhere to be seen in the photos. Or at all. The boy had disappeared, but there was a noise of running water coming from another room, and Minerva thought that he was there.

“As I said, Mrs. Dursley, I came to bring Mr. Potter’s letter. Can you call him? And please, tell me what you have explained to him about magic and the wizarding world, I will fill him in whatever you didn’t…”

“Nothing,” Petunia replied, her voice quiet.

“Excuse me?”

“The boy doesn’t know,” Petunia said. “I didn’t tell him anything about your world or anything. I’d hoped that he wouldn’t be like Lily. There were signs that he was of the same sort,” she paused, grimacing, “but I still thought that maybe he wouldn’t… I thought that he could be normal!”

Minerva pinched the bridge of her nose and smoothed her hair, trying to reign in her temper before speaking.

“There is nothing abnormal in being a wizard, Mrs. Dursley. And why would you expect Mr. Potter to not be one? Both of his parents have magic, you underst—”

“I said I’d hoped, but since he was six I pretty much knew that he was one of you. I try to keep it from Vernon the best I can. But he knows as well, some things were hard to keep from him…”

Minerva ignored the nonsense that Petunia was saying. Certainly she didn’t intend to stop her nephew from going to Hogwarts, did she?

“Indeed he is a wizard, otherwise there wouldn’t be a letter in his name, you understand.” Petunia nodded. “Can you please call your nephew, then? I need to explain him everything, and give him his letter.”

She would spend much more time than planned, and Minerva didn’t look forward having to go through everything that had happened, and saying that Potter’s parents were in prison. And what had the Dursleys told him about his parents? She voiced the question.

“I told him they died in a car crash! They might as well have done it. I didn’t want him getting any ideas of becoming a criminal as well. I will get the boy,” she said and turned away, then she stopped, as if she’d forgotten something. “Please, take a seat,” she added and pointed to the sofa.

Things were getting worse by the second, and suddenly Minerva wished that she hadn’t been the one to come. Petunia was back with the boy briefly.

“She needs to talk to you, Harry,” Petunia said and then left the room, huffing.

$%$%

“So... I can do magic.” Harry murmured, just to confirm what the woman - Mrs. McGonagall - had told him. Was that serious?

The truth was that he had his own suspicious about things that had happened before, and now magic sort of made sense to explain them, but what she said still sounded like bullshit...

Like the time he ended up on the roof while he was running away Dudley, or when his hair grew back after Aunt Petunia had cut it...

“... er! Mr. Potter!”

Harry snapped back from his memories.

“I’m sorry, I was just… thinking.”

The woman huffed. “I was saying that you have the capacity for performing magic, but that in order to be a functioning wizard, you will need to be educated. I am a teacher at Hogwarts, a magical boarding school, where you will be able to learn magic. I came here to discuss that.”

Right. But Harry was still suspicious. It was one thing to not be able to explain a few things, but witchcraft - or whatever it was that the woman was proposing - was not necessarily the answer for that.

“Can you prove it?” He asked.

“I’m sorry?” McGonagall asked, frowning.

“How do I know that you are really from this school and not someone who is lying to kidnap me take off my organs and sell them in the black market?” When his relatives left him alone, Harry watched the telly, and once he had seen on the news a case about a girl who had been kidnapped and had her organs taken out.

“Mr. Potter! That is a preposterous assumption! Doing such a thing would be like performing the darkest of mag—” she stopped suddenly, and took a deep breath. “Would you be satisfied if I could prove that I am a witch?”

The boy looked down and frowned. He remained quiet for a few moments and then turned to the witch, nodding. That was something, at least.

“Very well,” McGonagall said and took a - stick? - that was being kept in the long sleeve of her dress. “This is a wand, something that wizards need in order to perform magic. You’ll have one too.” she told, looking at Harry. Then she said something that he couldn’t understand - it didn’t even sound like English - and pointed the wand at a vase that was on the table. The vase levitated, hovered in the air for a little and then flew right to her hands.

Harry gaped and widened his eyes. That couldn’t be a trick! The woman had never been in the house before, neither had she touched the vase. She wasn’t lying.

Just like that, he felt as if his world had expanded. Magic existed, and he could use it. Maybe he wouldn’t need to live with his relatives anymore!

But McGonagall said that he would need to study magic, and he couldn’t afford it. He doubted that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would.

“Mrs. McGonagall, you said that I’d need to go to school. I can’t pay for it.”

“Hogwarts offers free tuition for all magical children, Mr. Potter. You need not concern yourself with that. Besides, you have a vault at Gringotts - our bank - that was left by your parents. It is your right to withdraw an amount for necessities such as school supplies or clothes. I would think that what is in your family’s vault is enough for that.”

“Were my parents magical too?” he asked, and before she could reply, he added. “Can’t magical people avoid car crashes?”

McGonagall sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She didn’t speak for some time, but seemed to be collecting her thoughts to explain something.

“I have more to tell you, Mr. Potter, so that you can understand your situation before going to Hogwarts. Your parents did not die, your aunt has lied to you - something that I have just discovered.” she said.

Harry smiled, but the smile was short lived. If they had not died, then they had left him on purpose… did his mother not know how her sister was? Harry felt his muscles tense, and his heartbeat quicken. How dare his aunt lie to him? And how dare his parents leave him?

“But why would she lie?” he blurted out the question, unable to stop himself. He wondered where his aunt was now, since she had disappeared after telling him that Mrs. McGonagall wanted to talk to him.

“Maybe you should ask her, Mr. Potter,” Harry huffed. Yeah, right. Because she would tell him the truth. McGonagall seemed to share his concern, because she continued. “But what I understand, from what she told me today, is that she wanted to avoid your contact with magic. She told me that she hoped you weren’t magical like your parents…”

Harry opened his mouth and closed several times, at a loss of words. It was a lot to process. Aunt Petunia had lied to him for all of his life, and not only said that his parents were dead, but also had hidden from him that he could do magic. And where the hell where his parents? They’d abandoned him with relatives that hated him.

“Where are my parents?” he finally asked. “Why did they leave me here?”

McGonagall sighed and looked away for a few moments. She remained silent before turning to him. “They did not abandon you, if that’s what you are thinking. They are in prison, Mr. Potter.”

“Why? What did they do?”

“There was a war…” McGonagall continued, not looking at Harry, before she paused and shook her head slightly. “But I am getting ahead of the story. I suppose I should start by saying that the magical world is composed by different people. Some were born in a magical family. Others were born in a non magical one - muggle, that’s how we call it. And there are the ones who have these two heritages. Those are the half-bloods, like you and I. You are the son of a pureblood wizard, which is the term used to refer to those who have only a magical ancestry; and a mother born to muggle parents…”

“Do you know their names?” Harry interrupted.

“Did your aunt—Nevermind. Their names are James and Lily.”

He nodded silently, repeating the names once in his head, although he doubted that he could ever forget them. He’d tried many times to get their names from his aunt, but she’s always refused to even talk about his parents.

“Continuing… a few of the pureblood families do not want muggleborns - or even halfbloods - to be part of the magical society. They discriminate these people. Not your father’s family, though,” McGonagall smiled, but her eyes did not share the expression. “Not traditionally, at least. The Potters have always been very open and accepting of everyone, independent of blood. Hence why your father married your mother, who is a muggleborn.”

Harry got distracted for a few seconds. He could see where the story was going. Someone had done something to his parents because of blood - whatever they mean with that. He wanted to know who it was...

“And by the time you were born, there was a war going on in magical Britain. A wizard whose name we do not speak wanted to rule the country, and kill and persecute those that he deemed unworthy. He wanted a society free of those who were not purebloods. He had a lot of followers, and your parents were among them, Mr. Potter.”

“What?” he asked, frowning. That made no sense at all.

“I suppose I could say that I was somewhat close to your parents, Mr. Potter. And I do not know how that happened. I ask myself sometimes… We didn’t know - or, we weren’t sure - that they were indeed Voldemort’s followers until after his downfall, with the end of the war. When they were denounced, they admitted it, and they did have a mark on their arms - the Dark Mark - which is a signal that the Dark Lord - the wizard I mentioned - used to mark those who worked for him.”

McGonagall didn’t speak for a long time, and Harry used that to try and make sense of everything that she told him. This wizard had been killing people like his mother, and apparently he didn’t want people like her in the world… but somehow she chose to follow him? And he accepted? It didn’t make sense, and he said that aloud.

“As I told you, Mr. Potter… no one - not even those who knew your parents - can explain what happened. I would suggest you to understand what they did wrong, and endeavor to not repeat it. Understanding why they did it will never justify it, however.”

Harry did not really agree with that. He didn’t want to pick a side on war that had ended. He just wanted to learn about his parents now.

“I want to go to Hogwarts,” Harry blurted, not wanting to give any doubts. It was a chance that he would not let go to be away from his relatives. McGonagall nodded, and she didn’t look surprised.

“I have to give you this,” McGonagall said and gave him a closed envelope. “It is your letter of acceptance. Letters like this are magically generated, and if it exists, it means that you are indeed a wizard. Classes will start on September 1st. Inside the envelope there is a list of the school supplies that you will need to buy. I will be able to help you with that in a few days, and you can also go by yourself to the place indicated in the list to sort that out. I would recommend waiting, and having an adult accompany you.”

Harry checked the list. Books about Charms, Transfiguration, and other subjects. Cauldron and ingredients for… Potions, really? As in magical potions that witches made in the movies? That was still surreal.

“Will my aunt let me go?” he asked, remembering that maybe his relatives would forbid him to go. On one side, he reckoned that they would want him away, but on the other, maybe they would try to stop him from having one good thing. And McGonagall had told him that his aunt wanted him to be away from magic. Was McGonagall suggesting that his aunt should take him to buy his school supplies? He doubted that would happen. Ever.

“She cannot stop you from going to Hogwarts, Mr. Potter. Well, she could try, but that would take time. I would advocate in your favor, as would Albus Dumbledore - he is the Headmaster at Hogwarts, and a very influential figure for us.” She paused. “But I don’t think she will try to stop you.”

He hoped so.

“Now I must talk to your aunt, Mr. Potter. I can take you to Diagon Alley on the next Monday to buy your school supplies, since you won’t have anyone to go with you. That is, if you want that.”

Harry considered saying that he would go alone, wanting to get to know the magical world as soon as possible. But maybe it would be good to have someone who already knew it to guide him.

“Yes, I want that, please,” he said.

“Very well. I will be here at 10 o’clock sharp.”

“Alright, I will be ready then.”

“Good day to you, Mr. Potter. See you on Monday,” McGonagall said and got up. She went in the direction of the kitchen, and Harry went to his cupboard. He wanted to reread his letter and the lists of books and supplies.

The boy tried to listen to the conversation going between his aunt and McGonagall, but he couldn’t hear much. Sometimes Aunt Petunia’s voice sounded higher, but it never got to the point of the shrill that she sometimes used with him. It was good that his uncle was at work, he supposed, although the idea of McGonagall doing something to Vernon was actually interesting. What else could the woman do, besides making stuff fly? He bet that she could make Uncle Vernon afraid. Someday he would, too.

 


	2. A World of Magic

**Chapter 2 -**

 

Monday did not come fast enough. On the night before Harry barely slept due to his anxiety. It was impossible to not get lost in imagining how the magical world was. He was already awaken when the sun rose. The cupboard was open - his relatives had not locked him in since the witch had come to their house - but he stayed inside.

 

Did wizards have ways to do the cleaning quickly? It certainly would help Harry with his chores. Could they use magic to open doors? It would come in hand if his relatives locked him inside his cupboard - It was all good now, but he doubted that they wouldn’t lock him as a punishment again. 

 

McGonagall had also said that he had some money. He would need to ask her about that. Which brought him back to the subject of his parents. He felt happy knowing that they weren’t dead, but there were many questions that he had forgotten to ask in the moment. The most important one was related to the time sentence that his parents had gotten, and if he was allowed to visit them. He wanted to meet them almost as much as he wanted to go to Hogwarts.

 

The door of the cupboard was opened suddenly, and Harry jumped. He had not noticed that it was already time to get up. Aunt Petunia threw a bag inside. “Here, boy.”

 

“What is this?” Harry asked, looking at the bag. He peeked inside and saw that there were clothes. He took them out of the bag, and noticed that they still had the tags. New clothes. Harry couldn’t remember for sure when was the last time that he got new clothes. He’d been six, or maybe five. He looked at his aunt, not knowing what to say. He wasn’t going to thank her for anything after learning that she had lied for him about his parents.

 

“I won’t have those people saying that you aren’t decently clothed,” Aunt Petunia said. 

 

Two pairs of trousers, a shirt and three t-shirts. They were nice clothes, probably not the cheapest ones that his aunt could have bought. He would have appreciated the gesture much more if it were before…  

 

“Get dressed. There is breakfast for you on the kitchen table.” 

 

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. He never ate at the table, these days, his food was usually left in front of his cupboard’s door. 

 

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had been arguing a lot since McGonagall  had come to their house. Harry had heard bits of their discussions. Aunt Petunia wanted to move him to one of the bedrooms, and had said something about “it will not pass on to Dudley, Vernon! I lived with my sister for years and turned out just fine, didn’t I?”

 

If asked, Harry would say that the cupboard wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He knew that other children were not kept in cupboards - he’d learned that from the kids at school - but the worst was the way his relatives always made sure to make him know that they thought he was less than Dudley. As time passed, he was just glad to have the cupboard as a refuge, except when he was locked inside. The idea that they might forget him inside the cupboard, or that there could a fire while he was locked was, in several occasions, enough to rob him any sleep. So, if they wanted to give him a room, Harry wouldn’t refuse it. Or the clothes. 

 

Harry ate breakfast, wondering where Dudley and Uncle Vernon were. He wouldn’t ask Aunt Petunia about that. Their absence was a blessing. It was obvious that his aunt didn’t like him, but at least she treated him with some little respect, unlike her husband. Maybe it was only so that the neighbours wouldn’t talk - or whatever it was that she cared about. Either way, Harry didn’t care about it. 

 

One thought crossed Harry’s mind while he ate. Maybe his uncle was trying to find a way to stop him from going to Hogwarts. It wouldn’t be impossible that he would try to kill anything  _ nice _ that the boy could have. But at least the school - magical and all - was a way to get rid of Harry, right? And what else could the man want?

  
  


$$

  
  


True to her word, McGonagall knocked on the door precisely on time.

 

“You can answer that,” his aunt said and climbed up the stairs. It was as if she thought that McGonagall had some contagious disease. 

 

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” the witch said when he opened the door.

 

“Good morning,” Harry replied. “I am ready to go.”

 

McGonagall looked inside the house. “Is your aunt home?”

 

“Yeah… she is resting, I think. I already told her that I was ready to go.”

 

Aunt Petunia would have chastised him for not offering something to a guest, if said guest was anyone else. Harry figured that his aunt would probably throw away anything that McGonagall used - the idea almost tempted him to actually offer something. 

 

“Then let’s go, Mr. Potter. There is a lot to do today.”

 

“Ok. I’ll just get my bag.”

 

* * *

“Wrong way, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said.

 

“We are not going to take the train?” Harry asked.

 

“No. We will use Apparition, a magical way of transport. It will be somewhat unpleasant, and may cause you sickness, so I will ask you to drink this,” she said and gave Harry a vial containing a purple liquid. 

 

“Er… I really don’t want to drink this,” he replied, remembering the stuff he’d seen on the TV about people who were kidnapped or killed after having laced drinks. Just because she was witch, it didn’t mean that she wouldn’t harm him. Maybe she would put him to sleep and then take out his organs for a potion - he’d seen that idea in a TV show some years ago… Maybe witches did use human parts on potions and spells and… whatever it was that they did and called magical.

 

McGonagall raised one eyebrow, but did not say anything. It was better that she didn’t try to convince him, because he wouldn’t do that. Ever. Magic or not, he still didn’t know the woman.

 

“Behind that building,” McGonagall said, pointing to a store of electronic accessories, “there is an isolated place that we can use to apparate.”

 

‘Isolated place’ did not bode well, but the boy continued to walk beside her, deciding that he would need to trust her at least a bit if he wanted her help. When they got to the place, McGonagall, told Harry to hold her hand, and to brace himself.

 

Harry gave his hand, and after a few seconds there was the oddest and worst sensation he’d ever felt. He thought that being inside a laundry machine while it was on was similar to that. He felt nauseous, and had to take several deep breaths to stop the imminent need to vomit. 

 

“Argh!” he muttered. “That was horrible!” he said louder.

 

“I offered a potion, Mr. Potter. It would have softened this reaction. Are you going to be sick?”

 

He shook his head. Now he was getting better, even though his stomach still felt a little like it had been squeezed. McGonagall did not seem affected by the apparition, Harry noticed, and now he could also pay attention to where they were. It looked like the scenario of a cheap fantasy movie, where people dressed like in the middle ages. 

 

“Will it always be like this?” he asked. It was still a good way to travel, he supposed, but in his next time he would be taking something to avoid that. After all, it seemed less and less likely that McGonagall would poison him.

 

“It gets better after a few weeks of practice. But you will not be allowed to apparate independently until you are seventeen, so you don’t need to worry about it for some time. Now come, we have a lot to do.”

 

Harry followed McGonagall, and the first place they went was the bank, Gringotts. After that, they bought his books and potions supplies. The teacher used what she called a shrinking charm on everything, put it in a bag and gave it to the boy. 

 

“Now I think that we should buy your wand,” McGonagall said after they left the apothecary. 

 

Harry nodded quickly. Potions supplies were ok, and the books were interesting, but he couldn’t wait to put have a wand and be able - theoretically - to do something magical. 

 

“Another first year, Professor?” the man who was behind the balcony asked when they entered the wand store. 

 

“Ollivander”, McGonagall greeted. “This is Mr. Potter.”

 

Ollivander nodded, and looked at Harry. 

 

“I remember every wand I sell, Mr. Potter. 10¼ inches and made of willow… that was the wand of one Ms. Evans - later Mrs. Potter, of course. A strong wand for Charms - and if I recall, that wand’s potential was not wasted. Misapplied, perhaps. And  your father’s, mahogany and pliable. Excellent for Transfiguration.”

 

Harry smiled. That made everything more real. Of course his parents were more than what Aunt Petunia had said. They were powerful. He bet that his aunt was jealous of her sister!

 

After a few seconds, Ollivander opened a box and took a wand. 

 

“Here,” he said. “Ten inches, blackwood and dragon heartstring. Try it.”

 

Harry looked at McGonagall, who nodded, encouraging.

 

“What do I do?” He asked Ollivander.

 

“Just hold it, and we will know if the wand has chosen you.”

 

The boy nodded and reached the wand hesitantly. What would happen of a wand “chose” him? That sounded like something a hippie girl had told Aunt Petunia once about crystals or something like that. Harry held the wand for some seconds, but nothing happened. What was supposed to happen, anyway? Like the thing that an old lady from church said she felt when she was talking to God?

 

“Did it chose me?” he asked.

 

“Not this one,” Ollivander muttered, took the wand from Harry’s hand, and opened another box. “Try this. Eleven and a half inches, hawthorn and unicorn hair.”

 

Harry repeated the process, but still nothing happened. 

 

“Hmmm…” the man muttered. “Nine inches, holly and unicorn hair,” he said, offering Harry yet another one.

 

“What is supposed to happen?” Harry asked, when again nothing happened.

 

“You will know that the wand is right, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander said. Harry gave him back the wand. “And there will be a sign. There always is, when a wand chooses a wizard. Try this one. Ten inches, silver lime and dragon heartstring.”

 

When Harry held the wand, he felt something different, and a few sparks of light appeared. Boxes in the shelves trembled, and a few even fell to the floor. 

 

“Is this it?” Harry asked.

 

“Not quite yet, Mr. Potter. Try this one now. Eleven inches, ebony and dragon heartstring.”

 

Harry eyed the wand curiously, wandering if he too would be able to tell anything about it ‘being the right one’. As he held the wand, he knew that this was the right one. For a brief moment, he felt warm inside, and in that second it was as if he could do anything. A soft light illuminated the room, before it was gone.

 

“I told you, Mr. Potter.” Ollivander said.

 

“Seven galleons?” Minerva asked. 

 

“Of course, professor.”

 

The boy paid Ollivander, and they left the store/ Harry felt complete, as if he’d always missing a piece that had only now been found. Any lingering doubts that magic was a lie were gone from his mind. Unless he was crazy. For the moment, though, he decided that it didn’t matter if he’d lost his mind. He held the wand and waved, pretending he was using magical spells.

 

“Now we only need to buy your robes, Mr. Potter. We can go to Madam Malkins… Mr Potter! Stop this now!”

 

“But I’m just…”

 

“You cannot perform magic outside of school while you are an underaged wizard. You don’t even know how to do it, and it is dangerous to wave a wand like that.”

 

Harry stopped the movements he was doing instantly, not wanting to give McGonagall any ideas about making him give up the wand - doing it even for a second seemed to provoke an emptiness in his mind. Besides, the witch’s call served to remind Harry of a question he needed to ask.

 

“Are you sure that wizards can only do magic after they go to school? I mean… there was some stuff that happened.”

 

McGonagall stopped walking and looked at Harry directly. “What kind of stuff?”

 

“Well… there was this day when Aunt Petunia cut my hair - and I hated it. I didn’t do anything, I swear, but in the next morning my hair had grown back.”

 

The witch raised her eyebrows. “That is not uncommon. It is called accidental magic. Did something else happen?”

 

“I… teleported… you know. I was being chased, and then suddenly I wasn’t. I was on the roof. Actually, for all I know I could have flied. I don’t remember it well.”

 

“Sometimes, when a child is growing up, situations like these happen. There is nothing to worry about,” she paused and then gave him a stern look. “Just to make it clear, Mr. Potter, you are not allowed to perform magic anywhere outside of Hogwarts. And there are means for the Ministry of Magic detect if that happens. Use of magic, except in the case of self defense, warrants expulsion from Hogwarts.”

 

Harry didn’t think that made sense. Children learned magic but could only act as wizards in a limited period? That probably made them learn it slower than it would be possible if they were allowed to use it more. Perhaps all the school thing wasn’t as interesting as he’d thought at first. Still, he wanted to have that, and learn everything he could about magic, and about his parents.

 

“Hmm… Mrs. McGonagall, you said that my parents are in prison. Can I visit them?”

 

The witch averted her eyes before replying. “No. Azkaban - it’s the prison where they are - is no place for a child. Nobody visits the prisoners.” Swallowing, Harry looked up, wishing that the witch would elaborate on that. But she left at that, and told him that they needed to hurry to finish everything in the next hour - and they still needed to buy his clothes. From then on, McGonagall started to talk about Hogwarts and what he should expect of the school, and Harry understood that when adults didn’t want to talk about something, there was no way to make them. 

* * *

McGonagall brought Harry back home. This time, he accepted the purple liquid - a potion, the witch had said. It tasted like some disgusting mix of stuff - he swore he could taste liver and mint in it - but it truly helped with the apparition, and avoided the intense nausea, but Harry still felt as though his body had been compressed and decompressed quickly.

 

The witch floated the trunk with Harry’s things to his bedroom, and the boy thanked God that his relatives weren’t home. Imagine if Uncle Vernon saw that!

 

“Do not forget, Mr. Potter. Platform 9 ¾,” McGonagall said, and gave Harry a train ticket. 

 

“I won’t. Thank you, Mrs. McGonagall,” Harry said, even though he still wondered how he would convince his relatives to drive him to the station. But that was no matter, he would go walking, if needed.

 

“You’re welcome. I look forward to seeing you at Hogwarts, Mr. Potter.”

 

Harry smiled. McGonagall seemed to be a nice person, and she seemed to know her business, it would be cool to have her as a teacher.

 

Once McGonagall left, Harry opened the trunk and pulled out his books. He had a lot of reading about magic to do. 

 


	3. Friends?

Harry admitted that the trip to Hogwarts was being less fun than he’d expected. There wasn’t anything magical about the train, and not much to do. Maybe he should have picked a compartment that wasn’t empty, at least he would have someone to talk to. It would be cool if he found someone who knew about magic and wanted to chat.

 

“Hello,” a dark haired girl said, opening the door. “May I come in?”

 

Harry nodded.

 

“I am honestly a bit disappointed, you know. We are basically travelling like muggles - my aunt says it’s a tradition to take the train, but I don’t care. Apparating close to Hogwarts would have been much faster. I can’t wait to arrive there, you know.”

 

Yes, the train was not the most fascinating way of transport, but the boy wasn’t sure if he would prefer apparition. The girl continued to say something, but Harry wasn’t paying much attention. From her way to talk about muggles, he guessed he was talking to a pureblood.

 

“I can’t wait to be sorted… which house do you think you will be in?” she asked.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

And neither did he understand why sorting was such an important thing. He had read about the four houses, but separating the students wasn’t something that made a lot of sense to Harry. Why couldn’t someone be ambitious and brave, for example? He remembered watching a movie growing up in which a gangster had desired and gained a lot of power through risky crimes that demanded a lot of courage to even think about.

 

“Well. I know which house I will be in,” she said. “What is your name?”

 

“Harry.”

 

“Nice to meet you,” she said, and changed the place where she was sitting, to come and stay in front of Harry, by the window. “I am Cassiopeia Lestrange.” she paused and assessed the boy. “Are you, by any chance, Harry Potter?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh. That’s wonderful, then. I sort of… heard about you at home. My uncle and aunt know your parents. Well, with all the war things, it is likely that my parents know yours, too.”

 

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

 

“Well. My parents are in Azkaban too. The Lestranges, you ought to know them.”

 

“I don’t know about that.”

 

“But what about your godfather? I am sure he has said _something_ about my mother, at least.”

 

Harry stared blankly at the girl. What was she talking about?

 

“Godfather?”

 

“Are you slow, Potter? I am talking about Sirius Black, shame of the family, your godfather, who raised you.”

 

Harry grimaced. Was it serious that name calling would already begin? Even without Dudley to fuel it, reality was already being the same old thing. He decided not to answer the question. What the hell was the girl talking about?

 

Cassiopeia bit her lower lip and lowered her eyes. They remained in silence for some minutes, until she broke it.

 

“Look, Potter. My aunt is always saying how I should behave like a proper witch, and think about all those useless things such as marriage - can you believe that? I was just… not being what she wants me to be, I guess. It wasn’t personal.”

 

“You don’t like your aunt,” Harry said.

 

The girl gave an exaggerated sigh.

 

“It’s not that. I mean, she’s good enough, I suppose, but she’s not my mother. She’s so content to look all prim and proper beside uncle Lucius and… Well, again, she is not my mother. My mother was powerful and feared, and that’s what I want to be. Which means that I will speak to people in the way I see fit, and I will not bow to other children just because my aunt thinks that I could marry them one day. Pureblood witch or not.”

 

Oh. Harry hadn’t liked the way the girl spoke to him before, but he didn’t think it was that bad, now that she’d explained. He too had, sometimes, done things only to spite his relatives.

 

“My aunt is kind of like that too,” he said, and immediately regretted. Now she would want to know more about aunt Petunia, and his relatives were a topic he preferred to avoid.

 

“Which aunt? Wait, you were raised by a Potter?”

 

It looked like his family was known… could it be that these people knew even the Dursleys? Harry felt a little ashamed at the possibility.

 

“I lived with the Dursleys,” he resigned to say. Soon or later it would be found out anyway.

 

Cassiopeia tilted her head and looked away, narrowing her eyes.

 

“I don’t know the name. Certainly not people that meet with Aunt for tea… Half-bloods?”

 

“They aren’t magical, so maybe you don’t know them,” Harry said. He remembered what McGonagall had said about pureblood folk - which he guessed Cassiopeia was part of - and wondered if she was going to leave now that she knew he had been raised by muggles. “My aunt is my mother’s sister,” he elaborated.

 

“That’s…” Cassiopeia opened her mouth but didn’t say anything for long seconds. “Horrible,” she finished.

 

Harry shrugged. The Dursleys weren’t horrible for being muggles, if that's what she meant. There were plenty of non magical people that treated children - even their nephews - decently.

 

“So that’s why you didn’t know about Sirius - er, your godfather. I mean, for all I know he is the closest thing of a relative you have alive. A magical one at least. I thought he’d raised you. That’s a pity, really, and now that I know you I am thinking that it could have been me to be left living with mu-”

 

The voices of other children shouting outside of their cabin interrupted the conversation. It seemed to Harry that there was a fight going on. Cassiopeia stopped talking.

 

“...obviously a Weasley…”

 

“... up, Malfoy.”

 

Harry looked at Cassiopeia, wondering if she knew more about that.

 

“One of them is my cousin, Draco Malfoy, I’d guess. He got the worst from both the Blacks and Malfoys - or that’s the gossip I’ve heard from other people, behind Aunt Narcissa’s back, of course. A spoiled git who always loses to me in fights - if anyone cared to notice that…”

 

The fight continued, and Harry decided to go and take a look. He opened the door of the cabin and saw two boys - one blonde and the other redheaded. He wondered which one was Cassiopeia’s cousin.

 

“And who are you?” the blonde boy asked Harry, eyeing his clothes and shoes. He sneered before adding, “From these clothes I can see you’re a mudblood.”

 

The other boy flushed, and his face was almost as red as his hair.

 

“You can’t call people that!” he said.

 

Harry had the impression that he had just been offended, even though he didn’t know what a mudblood was.

 

“I am a Malfoy, I can do what I want,” the blonde boy replied, and Harry finally saw who was the girl’s cousin.

 

Spoiled git. Right. The boy certainly made a good Dudley impression.

 

Cassiopeia came to stand beside Harry, and when Draco Malfoy saw her he pursed his lips and chuckled.

 

“And you! Cassiopeia, you can bet my father will hear about you mixing with mudbloods.”

 

“Harry is not a mudblood, Draco. And you know, write whatever you want to your father. I am not his daughter.”

 

Draco narrowed his eyes and didn’t say anything. He just looked at Harry, Cassiopeia and the redheaded boy with distaste and turned around, leaving them.

 

“Like a said, he’s a spoiled git. Imagine having to live with that every day,” the girl said.

 

The redhead scratched his neck, and stared at Harry and Cassiopeia.

 

“Who are you?” he asked, eyeing Cassiopeia as if she would jump on him at any time.

 

“Cassiopeia and Harry,” the girl replied before Harry could say anything. “You’re a Weasley, right?”

 

“Yeah. Ron Weasley."

 

“Do you want to sit with us?” she asked, opening the door wider.

 

Ron shrugged and nodded, entering the cabin.

 

Harry returned to the place where he was sitting before, by the window. Cassiopeia let Ron sit in front of Harry, and sat beside him, close to the door.

 

“So… are you a muggleborn?” Ron asked Harry. “My father loves muggle stuff”, be complemented before Harry could answer.

 

“I was raised by my aunt and uncle - they are muggles. My parents are magical.”

 

“Oh. Is that a muggle thing? Leaving your children to the relatives? My father would find it interesting, but mom would abhor it… or did your parents die in the war?”

 

“My parents are in prison.”

 

That made Ron stop talking for a few seconds. He looked at the table and then made a grimace and turned to face Cassiopeia.

 

“You said you lived with Malfoy every day. Why?”

 

“He’s my cousin.”

 

Ron flushed again, and his eyes widened. He looked panicked.

 

“You! You’re a Malfoy!”

 

Cassiopeia rolled her eyes.

 

“I am a Lestrange. My mother is a Black by birth, as is my au-”

 

“Black… Lestrange,” Ron choked. “I have to get out of here,” and then he tried to pass through Cassiopeia, but she didn’t move to clear the way. Harry watched the exchange with curiosity. What was it with these people, did they all care about relatives and things like that? He would be seriously screwed if people wanted to judge him based on the Dursleys.

 

“Merlin, Weasley! I am not about to curse you.” Cassiopeia said.

 

Ron turned his panicked eyes to Harry, as if asking for help.

 

“You can’t be here with Lestrange!” he said. “She wants to kill all non purebloods.”

 

Harry frowned, remembering what McGonagall had said about the war and the blood thing. Cassiopeia was a pureblood, but she’d seemed friendly.

 

“If I recall it correctly, you are a pureblood too, Weasley.”

 

“Yeah, but my parents did not try to kill everyone who is not a bigoted pureblood.”

 

“Well. The Dark Lord died, so it’s not like er… I mean, not even if he were alive, I wouldn’t want to follow him if he wanted to kill everyone. I do think muggles are useless, but it’s not like I would want to kill all magical people… I am sure they are stupid enough to not last much.”

 

“That’s not true! Dad says muggles are smart in their own way,” Ron protested.

 

Harry snorted. It was just his luck, that the first person who was nice to him also would have wanted to kill people raised by non-magical folk. Sure, Cassiopeia had been friendly, but something in her didn’t make sense.

 

“I am getting out of here,” Weasley said, but the girl did not relent, and stayed in the way.

 

“You’d asked of Harry lived with muggles, right?” She gave a brief glance on Harry’s direction. “Tell him more about the muggles,” she said.

 

Deciding it wouldn’t do any harm, Harry began to talk.

 

“So… I was raised by my aunt - my mother’s sister - and her husband.”

 

Ron still kept looking at the girl, but he relaxed and paid attention to what the other boy was saying.

 

“There isn’t a lot more to say, really. My aunt is always worried with making sure that everything is in place and stuff like that…”

 

Ron nodded.

 

“What happened to your parents?”

 

Harry looked down and picked at the hem of his shirt. Given how the redhead had reacted to Cassiopeia, nothing good would come off of saying his parents had served the dark wizard during the war.

 

“They are in prison,” Harry repeated. He guessed that the commotion with Cassiopeia had made Weasley forget what he’d said about his parents.

 

“Muggle prison? Can they keep wizards in?” Ron asked, gaping.

 

“No. The magical one.”

 

“Azkaban?” Weasley shouted. “Are they Death Eaters too?”

 

“I guess so…” Harry replied. That’s what little he knew, at least. “That’s what people told me. I grew up thinking they died in a car crash, I just discovered they are alive… and in prison.”

 

Ron looked at Harry with same expression he’d used earlier, as if he would be jumped at any moment.

 

“I really need to get out of here,” he said. “Get out of the way, Lestrange.”

 

“No.”

 

“Fine,” Weasley said and climbed on the table. Cassiopeia snorted and crossed her arms, but made nothing to stop him.

 

“And to think that this is what will end up in Gryffindor - house of the brave,” she muttered. “Just remember that if you need anyone to kick dear Draco’s ass you have an ally here,” Cassiopeia finished loudly as Ron opened the door and left.

 

“How do you know he will end up in Gryffindor?” Harry asked.

 

“Well… All Weasleys are Gryffindors,” he replied, shrugging.

 

Harry figured that in Cassiopeia’s head that made sense. In his it didn’t, but he wouldn’t discuss that now. Actually, he didn’t know if he should to the girl at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we discover what else is different in this AU, and Harry gains friends. Maybe.
> 
>  
> 
> Stay tuned for the sorting in next chapter. To which house do you think Harry, Ron and Cassiopeia are going to be sorted? The answer may not be that obvious ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 - First Contact**

 

The Great Hall of Hogwarts was something out of dreams - or movies. Harry had never seen a place look so powerful and imposing. He’d seen pictures in one of the books - and moving pictures at that - but nothing could be compared to the real thing.

 

“It’s beautiful,” he said, looking up, fascinated by the floating candles that looked like stars, only much closer. 

 

“It is,” Cassiopeia agreed. 

 

Other children were suffering the same effect that Harry was. 

 

“What happens now?” Harry asked. He and the girl hadn’t talked much after Weasley left, but he reckoned she was a kid just like him, and maybe despite everything, they could be friends. And she knew more about magic than him.

 

“We will be sorted into our houses, and after that there’s the feast.”

 

Harry was positively anxious for the feast. He wondered what kinds of magical foods existed, and if he could get away with cooking them at the Dursleys. 

 

Among the children was, of course, Weasley. He was talking to another first year, and grimaced when Harry looked at him and waved.

 

“Don’t mind him. It’s not like I haven’t been treated worse,” Cassiopeia said. 

 

“He was nice enough before he found out who we are.”

 

“That’s because he is stupid. But as I said, don’t mind him. We can be friends. We don’t need friends like Weasley.”

 

Harry eyed the girl warily. She was making the same face that Aunt Petunia did sometimes when Uncle Vernon brought someone important from work to dinner. He didn’t know if that meant anything. 

 

“Do you hate people raised by muggles, and muggles too?” He asked. That was important. He couldn’t be friends with someone who hated him for something that wasn’t even his fault. Or even who wanted to kill muggles for nothing. He doubted that Cassiopeia Lestrange had ever even seen a non magical person, never mind talked to them.

 

“Weasley didn’t know what he was talking about, okay?” She replied, gritting her teeth. “But what can you expect from them?” the second part she spoke in quieter tone. “I don’t like muggles. But  _ you _ aren’t a muggle, and I don’t hate you. Why would I be talking to you if I did?”

 

Shrugging, Harry looked away. Something was about to happen - McGonagall was talking, and a silence fell on the Great Hall. 

 

“It’s the sorting ceremony,” Cassiopeia whispered. 

 

A lot of children were called, and Harry watched, while Cassiopeia told him about the family of this or that kid, but he was only half paying attention to her. What interested him more was how a hat could choose their house. It was a lot like lottery, at least in his opinion. Some children were sorted as soon as the hat touched their heads, while for others the hat took some time to do it. 

 

Harry glanced behind, and Draco Malfoy sneered at him. Just as annoying as Dudley. Maybe he should make the comparison - the blonde would hate to be compared to a muggle. 

 

“Cassiopeia Lestrange,” McGonagall called.

 

“Finally,” the girl said. “Well, see you soon Harry.” 

 

Cassiopeia smiled at McGonagall and sat on the stool.

 

“Your cousin’s turn, Draco,” a dark haired girl told Malfoy. Harry glanced at them. 

 

“Cassiopeia is a stupid girl. For all I know, she’ll end up in Hufflepuff.”

 

The girl snickered. 

 

The hat took some time to call out Lestrange’s house, but when it did, Harry heard Malfoy laugh aloud.

 

“GRYFFINDOR!” 

 

“Father is going to kill her, and her parents would be disgusted.”

 

Harry raised his eyebrows. Really, what world was this where people cared so much about houses? Then he remembered that some people who fought over sports in the muggle world, and decided that, no, having magic did not make a person that different.

 

Cassiopeia smiled as the hat shouted the name of her house. Harry figured that maybe that’s where all Lestranges were sorted, if the girl’s own words on the train were to be followed. A silence fell on the great hall, and then followed by the buzz of murmurs. McGonagall asked for silence, and took the hat off Cassiopeia’s head. The professor frowned and gave Dumbledore a brief look. 

 

The next student called was Neville Longbottom. Harry had read about him in one of the History books. The boy’s parents had had a crucial role in defeating “You-Know-Who” - legend said that they had been the ones to kill the dark wizard. Neville was just a baby at the time. Voldemort had been killed, but the Longbottoms had paid for that with their own lives.

 

Longbottom too was sorted to Gryffindor, and a few more children were called before Harry’s turn, including Malfoy, who was sent to Slytherin. Apparently, not everyone in a family ended up in the same house, after all.

 

After a few more children, Harry’s name was called. He walked up to McGonagall and gave her an insecure smile. She simply nodded and made a gesture toward the stool.

 

Harry sat in the stool. Not one bit nervous as the other children had seemed to be. He didn’t care much about the house where he would be in, as long as he could study magic. Sure, maybe avoiding sleeping in the same room as Malfoy would be good, but it wasn’t as if living with Dudley hadn’t taught him anything.

 

As the hat was put on his head, someone began to talk to him.

 

_ “Hmmm… I see that you want a place to belong… even if you have to make that place yourself. A capacity and desire for great things. A lot of bravery… Difficult, Harry Potter… oh, but  _ that _ is quite an ambitious thing.” _

 

_ “What?” _ he asked.

 

_ “Breaking your parents out of prison, of course.” _

 

The boy frowned. Did he want that? He had not really thought about it, he only wanted to meet his parents, in any way possible, and nothing would stop him from doing that. How could a hat know of something he hadn’t thought about? The answer was, of course, ‘magic’. And it made him feel in awe, and a bit terrified. And what if the hat told someone about it…

 

_ “I shall not reveal your secret, child. And I can see now that the best place for you is… _ SLYTHERIN!"   
  
Harry ignored the murmured comments that followed the hat’s shout, and even the ones that he could hear clearly. He did not even know his parents and he was already being judged because of them. He didn’t even know magic, it wasn’t as if he was going to harm someone. When he sat at the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy glared at him, but Harry ignored that for the time being.

  
The rest of the sorting was quick. As Cassiopeia had predicted, Weasley was sorted to Gryffindor.

 

The sorting had ended, and the Headmaster said something about the forbidden forest being forbidden, and that they could finally eat.

 

Some of the other children were talking to each other, but at first Harry worried more about eating. The Dursleys gave him enough food to live on, but he was always excluded from the outings and celebrations where food comparable to this feast was served. It was a first opportunity that he wouldn’t let pass. He was a bit disappointed that magical food didn’t look more… magical, but the tastes and textures that he had never tried were enough.

 

Glancing at the Gryffindor table, Harry saw Cassiopeia talking to the other children near her; most of them just ate, occasionally saying something, while the Lestrange girl talked non stop, pushing her food around in the plate. Weasley was talking to Longbottom and a bunch of other redheads that could only be Ron’s brothers.

 

Harry sighed. He didn’t exactly know how to approach the other children. It would have been easier if he were in the same house as the people he already knew. Even if Ron had been skittish - surely he would understand, in time, that Harry couldn’t be a murderer at eleven years old. And Cassiopeia was there too.

 

From what he gathered, in Slytherin he probably wouldn’t bond with anyone due to the unfamiliarity with the magical world either. 

 

Oh well… 

 

His thoughts were interrupted by Malfoy. 

 

“I am talking to you, Potter!”

 

Harry stared at the boy, but did not say anything.

 

Malfoy glanced around before continuing.

 

“I don’t know how your mudblood of a mother ended up serving the Dark Lord, but don’t think that that will make anyone here forget your dirty blood.”

 

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry replied. 

 

“That’s all you’ve got?” Malfoy said and snickered. Beside him were two tall boys, who did the same. “But what can I expect from someone like you? Certainly not anything that threatens me.”

 

Harry stood up, enraged. He wouldn’t let some magical Dudley annoy him - not at Hogwarts, the place where he could have a chance of something good. The long sleeve of his robe got caught in the plate he was using, and the sudden movement made it fall to the floor, scattering around the food. If Harry had been less stressed in that moment, he would have marveled at the fact that it did not break.

 

Malfoy and the other two boys laughed aloud now, and some other children too. Harry felt his cheeks burning with embarrassment, and dropped to his knees to clean the floor. He picked the pieces of chicken and fruits and put them back into the plate.

 

“What is the meaning of this?” Someone with a deep voice asked.

 

Harry looked up and saw a dark haired, tall man, dressed in black. He had been at the head table during the sorting, so probably a teacher. 

 

“Potter was provoking me, Professor Snape. He was going to throw a plate full of food at me. I guess that’s a muggle way to fight or something,” Malfoy replied before Harry could say anything. 

 

“That’s not true!” Harry shouted. 

 

“Silence, Mr. Potter,” Snape said.

 

“But he’s lying!” Harry protested.

 

“I said silence. I don’t want to hear excuses from you. Now cease to pick food from the floor like a starving creature.”

 

The boy stood up, and with a brisk movement, Snape took the plate Harry was holding. 

 

“These are not excuses!” Once again Harry insisted. “Malfoy is the one that wa-”

 

“Are you deaf, Potter? That will be thirty poi-” Snape stopped and took a deep breath. “Detention, Potter. Saturday, 7 o’clock.” He drew a wand and said a spell, vanishing the mess on the floor. Then turned around and left. 

 

“Good, Potter. Already on our head house’s bad side, and the feast isn’t even finished. Already shaming Slytherin.”

 

Harry glared at Malfoy, but inside he felt as if he had just been kicked. That had been so unfair. He hoped that Snape would listen to his side of the story when his detention came. He’d rather have McGonagall as head house, and it wasn’t as though he really cared for Slytherin. All in all, perhaps he would have preferred Gryffindor.

 

Stupid hat!

* * *

 

Slytherin’s quarters were in the dungeons. Harry felt like he was in one of those horror movies that he watched in the telly sometimes. There was an impression that the place was humid, which served to intensify coldness that he felt. The robes he was wearing helped, though. He still wasn’t accustomed to wearing them. He’d tried the robes at home, before the travel to Hogwarts, but felt so awkward that he decided to put them only when he arrived at the school.

 

“Hey, Potter.” 

 

Harry turned around and found a tall, older boy looking at him. His tie had Slytherin colours. 

 

“I’m Marcus Flint, prefect,” the boy said and glanced behind them. “Look - I don’t know how much you understand about your situation here. Just please, don’t go crying to Snape if something happens. That will be no good. Keep your head down, and talk to me of you have an emergency.”

 

Harry nodded, dumbfounded. Flint gave a slight snort and then left. Go crying to Snape! As if Harry would ever do that… 

 

Perhaps Hogwarts wasn’t being the dream he had thought of before… but he wouldn’t let that stop him from learning magic.

 

He mentally prepared himself and entered the dormitory. To his relief, it was empty. 

 

The dormitory, much like the common room, was decorated with silver and green. The beds had green curtains around them, and he was grateful for that. Maybe later, when he knew some magic, he would be able to put a spell on them. Harry doubted that children like Malfoy would him in peace, and he would need to deal with that, somehow.

 

Discovering magic had given Harry new ideas. A part of him had always wondered if the Dursleys weren’t right, and had always wanted them to… like him. Knowing that he, like his parents, had power changed that. He didn’t need the Dursleys, and yes, he would go back to his relatives’ house on summer, but wouldn’t put up with their treatment any longer. 

 

And that meant that he wouldn’t put up with any magical, pointy faced, version of Dudley either. 

 

After a brief internal debate over which bed to choose, Harry settled for the one closest to the door. He changed his clothes and pulled the curtains around him. 

 

Despite his worries, exhaustion soon took over Harry’s body, and his eyelids began to close. He was fast asleep, and did not hear what Draco Malfoy and other first years had to say about him.

* * *

 

Defense Against the Dark Arts was a class shared with Gryffindor. Cassiopeia appeared beside Harry, and apparently decided that she wanted to share a table with him. He was anxious for the class, both because it was the first magical class he would ever be in, and because Sirius Black, his supposed godfather, was the teacher.

 

“Hi,” the girl said, smiling.

 

“Hi.” 

 

“So, you ended up in Slytherin, after all. Did you like it?”

 

Harry shrugged. 

 

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he replied. “Did you know I would end up in Slytherin?” he asked. 

 

“Merlin, no! I thought you would be in Gryffindor like your parents.”

 

“Wait! How do you know that my parents were there?” 

 

“It was in the Prophet. Uncle Lucius keeps old editions of the paper in his library. And I read about it one article. It was about their crimes.”

 

“Can I see it?” 

 

“Well, not that one copy, but I guess that in the Hogwarts’ Library there must be an archive like that. We could go there and see.”

 

Harry nodded quickly. That was a great idea. 

 

“It’s the same article about my parents’ imprisonment. Only that they talk much more about yours - they… betrayed the other side in the war, after all.” 

 

“And what about your parents?”

 

“What about them?” Cassiopeia asked.

 

“Are they Gryffindors too?”

 

“Of course not. Lestranges have always been in your house. I mean, on my mother’s side there was Sirius Black in Gryffindor before me, of course, but that’s it.”

 

“Are you mad that you’re there?”

 

Cassiopeia smiled and when she spoke again, it was in a low tone.

 

“Of course not. I told the hat to put me there.”

 

“But why?” And you could ask the hat to put you in a specific house?

 

“Because Uncle Lucius will hate it, and Aunt Narcissa will be so embarrassed!”

 

“Do you want them to be cross with you?” Harry asked in confusion. 

 

“They should see how Draco is a silly wizard boy who won’t ever be half of the witch I’ll become one day.”

 

“Okay,” Harry said. He thought that Cassiopeia, too, looked a bit pampered, kind of like Draco Malfoy. But he guessed that this Aunt Narcissa of hers was a bit like Aunt Petunia, and he could understand the girl’s sentiment, in a way.

 

“My relatives also like Dudley - that’s my cousin - much more than me.” Harry left out the part about being berated about his uselessness out, though.

 

“That’s because they don’t know their place.”

 

Harry sighed. Wasn’t it normal that parents liked their own children more than other kids, though? 

 

“What place, Cassiopeia?” 

 

“Well, they should be devoted to you. You - we - are better than them. You shouldn’t even  _ be _ with them. Look at you, lost in the place where you belong.”

 

The boy could see the appeal in the idea, but he wasn’t ready to extend the dislike he had for his relatives to all other muggles. And he didn’t like how the girl treated him as if he were stupid.

 

“Stop that, okay? I am not dumb. I can learn magic. I already did magic when I was little.”

 

Cassiopeia looked away.

 

“I didn’t say you were dumb, ok? You just should have been raised in the wizarding world, that’s all. And what you did was accidental magic,” she explained.

 

“Yeah, McGonagall told that…”

 

“Good morning!” Said Professor Sirius Black, interrupting their conversation.

 

Harry and Cassiopeia stopped talking, and began to pay attention to the class. 

 

“I am Professor Black. You are here to study and learn how to defend yourselves from a branch of magic designed and used to cause damage - Dark Magic.”

 

Sirius looked at some of the students in the classroom, but Harry noticed that the teacher avoided looking at him. Instead, he fixed Cassiopeia with a hard stare. 

 

“Some of you may be familiar with using that sort of magic, but here our goal is another one. So, let us begin. When should you dodge and when should you block a spell in a duel?”

 

A blonde Slytherin girl raised her hand - Greengrass, if Harry wasn’t mistaken. He remembered finding her surname dumb during the sorting ceremony.  _ Green grass _ , really? Next would be someone called Bluesky or something like that.

 

“Ms. Greengrass?”

 

“You should block a weaker spell. Some of them are too strong to be blocked by simple protecting shields, some of them can’t be blocked at all.”

 

“That’s correct,” Black said. 

 

“Are we going to learn about shields, professor?” Asked a Gryffindor boy whose name Harry couldn’t remember. 

 

“Well, it is Defense Against the Dark Arts, and one way of defense is to cast shields, so of course we are going to study them,” Cassiopeia muttered.

 

“Eventually, yes, Mr. Thomas,” Black said. He sat on the table in front of the room, and then waved his wand, and words appeared on the black board behind him. “In the following classes, we will discuss how each of these branches of magic,” he pointed at board, “can be used for defense. But for now we will start with more basic questions.”

 

The class proceeded with Black mostly asking questions about what sorts of defensive magic the students already knew. He awarded points when Gryffindors gave the right answers, but not when the Slytherins did it. Harry didn’t care for points, but Black’s actions were stupid anyway. But at least he did not deduct points for wrong answers. 

 

Black was a good teacher, and as far as Harry could tell, he seemed like a decent person. That confused the boy. Apparently the man had some relation to Harry, but he had never visited or anything. Well, he would get to the bottom of the story.

 

When the class ended, Harry walked up to the front of the room, instead of leaving like everybody. 

 

“Hey, where are you going?” Cassiopeia asked, poking his left arm.

 

“You told me that Professor Black is my godfather. I want to talk to him about that!”

 

The girl groaned, but nodded. 

 

“See you after class then, Harry. We can go to the library.”

 

Harry nodded and turned away. He waited for everyone to leave before approaching the teacher.

 

“Excuse me, Professor Black, can I talk to you?” 

 

Sirius looked up from the book he was looking at. 

 

“Potter,” he greeted. “Of course. What is this about?” 

 

Harry hesitated. He wasn’t really sure about what he was doing. Talking to Black had been a sudden decision, and now he felt out of place, not knowing what to say. 

 

“Cassiopeia told me that you’re my godfather. Is it true?”

 

Black put the book down and crossed his arms. 

 

“Ms. Lestrange was correct, but it’s good that you have enough sense to not believe everything she says..”

 

“Why?” 

 

“She comes from a family that spreads a lot of lies.”

 

Harry pursed his lips. Cassiopeia had not been completely nice to him, but she still was the only person who talked to him at the moment. He carried enough stigma out of Slytherin, what with his Dark Lord’s followers parents, and inside his own house the first day wasn’t being great either, because of blood purity - or, in his case, lack thereof. And the girl had offered help with the stuff about his parents on the papers. He couldn’t let the man say something like that.

 

Cassiopeia had said that she and Professor Black were related, and that was enough.

 

“Do you mean your family? Because she also told me you’re related to her. Or was she lying about that?”

 

Black gave Harry a dark stare and simply remained in silence. 

 

“Was that all?” the professor asked.

 

It wasn’t, but Harry had already understood it all. Black  _ had _ abandoned him to live with the Dursleys and never looked back.

 

“I wanted to know if it was true that you left me to live with the Dursleys, but I already saw that Cassiopeia did not lie about that either, Professor,” he stressed the title, trying to make it clear what sort of relationship they had, and the only they ever would.

 

The Slytherin turned around, intent on leaving, but Sirius interrupted him.

 

“Harry, wait!” he waited the boy turn around to continue. “Look, your father and I were great friends, but when… when it all happened I could not forget what he’d done. There’s a lot of things you don’t understand about it. But I am sorry, I just couldn’t forget what he’d done.”

 

Harry felt his eyes prickling, and a rage welling up. He needed to get out quick, before he screamed at Black and earned himself another detention - and this time it would be a deserved one. He was tired of being treated badly by people because of things his parents had done. That was another similarity between the muggles and wizards in his life.

 

“I am not my father, professor!” he said, and left before Black could reply.

 

Unfortunately, and as Harry would soon discover, Sirius Black was not the only teacher to forget that obvious fact. 

* * *

 

When Harry arrived at the library, he found Cassiopeia sitting in front of a large table with many editions of the wizarding paper scattered around. The place wasn’t full, and he spotted a few older students, and one Gryffindor girl that was in his year. 

 

“I already began to look,” Lestrange said when she saw Harry. “These are all editions from 1975 onwards - I figured that there could be stuff about your parents here - they are a tad younger than mine, so I guess that cover the time they went to school.”

 

For some reason, Harry had thought that the girl’s parents were the same age as his.

 

“Did your parents go to school much before?” he asked.

 

“Yeah, kind of. Well, my family - the Blacks - usually have some trouble to have children, so Mother had me later.” she replied, but something in her tone made Harry suspect that wasn’t the whole story. 

 

They began to sort through the papers. Harry just skimmed the headlines and titles of sections, ignoring everything that wasn’t about his parents or an occasional interesting case. The sound of the shuffling paper was the only thing heard.

 

“Do you like Gryffindor?” Harry asked, breaking the silence. 

 

“It’s cool. They are afraid of me. Weasley has a theory that I am a spy among them.”

 

Harry snorted. Somehow, he didn’t doubt that the same would be said about him in Slytherin. 

 

“But did you make any friends?”

 

“Not yet, they are still too worried… because of my parents. I did talk with a fifth year - one of the Weasleys, in fact. Percy, who is a prefect. But he was more interested in trying to offer help with my studies - and I heard his brothers talking behind his back, they think he’s trying to reach my uncle through me or something. It’s not as if it will work, Uncle Lucius hates Weasleys - and they hate the Malfoys. Although… well, he and my aunt sometimes do things that I can’t understand, so it’s not impossible…” she shrugged, “but I don’t care about that.”

 

“So why would he want to reach your uncle?” 

 

“Because rumor has it that Percy Weasley wants to work at the Ministry when he finishes school.”

 

“Hum…” Harry murmured, not really paying attention. He didn’t know those people, and all that gossip was not important, and it reminded him of aunt Petunia.

 

They continued to look at the papers, and in a copy that dated from 1982 Harry found the first interesting thing. It wasn’t about his parents, but about the very man Cassiopeia had talked about a minute before. 

 

Lucius Malfoy had been found as a Death Eater, but did not go to prison. Instead, he had said that Voldemort had him under  _ Imperius _ , and that nothing he did in the Dark Lord’s order was out of his free will. 

 

“What is  _ Imperius _ ?” Harry said a bit louder than he’d intended. 

 

“What?” Cassiopeia asked, looking away from the paper that she had been reading.

 

“ _ Imperius _ curse - what is that?”

 

“Oh. It’s a spell used to control people, to make them do what you want. One of the Unforgivable Curses - using them leads you to a stay in Azkaban.”

 

“There are more? What are the other Unforgivables?” Harry asked, and wondered if there was some sort of forgiving ritual used by wizards to purge them of the sins, like Catholic people did. 

 

“The  _ Cruciatus _ \- it’s a torture curse, it inflicts pain beyond imagination - and the Killing Curse, which, well… kills anything. No one has ever survived it.”

 

Torture curse, Killing Curse. Harry found that… unsettling. He could kind of understand why some people hated Dark Magic. He tried to imagine his parents torturing and killing people - had they even done that? He hoped not. 

 

And he could admit that mind control seemed… less bad, compared to killing or torturing people. But all three spells were considered “Unforgivables”, did that make controlling people just as bad as the other two? 

 

“Your uncle… he says that the Dark Lord mind controlled him, but Draco seems very much into the blood purity thing that Voldemort wanted…” 

 

Dudley used to repeat the stuff that his parents talked. Draco probably was like that too. 

 

Cassiopeia looked away before speaking, in a quiet voice, “It’s because that’s a lie. They - Aunt and Uncle - think I don’t hear the things they say. But I know that he really was a… he really was  _ that _ ,” she whispered the the last part, glancing around. “He’s a coward. Nothing like my parents.”

 

Or Harry’s.

 

“But you can’t tell anyone about that!”

 

“I won’t.”

 

Cassiopeia nodded, accepting the reply. Then she went back to looking at the papers. Harry suspected that the girl had spent a lot of time reading about her parents, and he envied that. Even though she had grown up with relatives, at least she knew who she was. Aunt Petunia’s years of lies was a constant in the back of his mind. He felt like an idiot, as if somehow he should have known the truth - didn’t he have magic, after all?

 

“Oh, look here,” Cassiopeia said, not looking at Harry. “It’s about your parents’ marriage. It doesn’t say many nice things, but there’s a picture of them.”

 

Harry looked at the picture. His parents were smiling in the picture. His mother was wearing a white dress, and his father a dark set of robes - he couldn’t tell the color, since it was a black and white picture. And he wore glasses - just like Harry. And his mother looked nothing like Aunt - maybe if he looked closer he would see some resemblance, but he’d rather not.

 

_ James Potter, and his wife. _ Was written below the image.

 

“You look a lot like him,” Cassiopeia said. “As if someone had made an animated golem of him and the result was you.”

 

He didn’t even ask. That sounded creepy. Instead, he read the text beside the picture.

 

_ In a move that reminds us of a member of the Black family, now James Potter has also married a muggleborn. Perhaps less unexpected than in that case, for sure, but equally worrying.  _

 

_ The new Mrs. Potter is called Lily (and no, that is not a nickname), and she was in Gryffindor, as was James Potter.  _

 

_ One has to wonder if  _ this _ is a tendency in our world, and particularly what the future brings to the couple.  _

 

**_Lucinda Rowle_ **

 

That was stupid. The article pretty much said that his father shouldn’t have married his mother. And it worried Harry a little that this world still did not welcome him and his family. Couldn’t he talk to someone that liked them, for once?

 

He made a point to remember that the girl next to him was raised by people like that, and that she probably had some similar ideas. At least Cassiopeia admitted that the paper did not say nice things.

 

And how could his parents - his mother - get involved with Voldemort? From what he knew, the man had destroyed their lives.

 

Harry wanted to understand that as much as he could, but for now he was glad enough to have seen a picture of his parents. He could think about them now and imagine more than random faces, and that was something that he had never conceived before. He could come back to the papers later - maybe by himself, even.

 

“Is there a way to make copies of this picture?” Harry asked.

 

“There are spells for the replication of objects, but I don’t know any. Maybe we could ask the librarian.”

 

“No,” he answered. With everything, it was better if no adults knew that he was reading about his parents. His mother’s blood was not the only reason why they were infamous. Then he had an idea. “This boy - the older Weasley you said - do you think that he would know a spell for that, and would help me?”

 

“I can ask him,” she offered. “Or maybe you can write a letter to the Prophet, asking for the editions.”

 

“It’s better if you ask him. Then we can come back later and see the rest. I’ll make copies of everything.” If he couldn’t, stealing was an option - not everything that they found, but at least the picture.

 

And one day, Harry was sure, he would talk to his parents himself, and would not need anyone telling lies about them anymore. 

* * *

 

Albus Dumbledore left the library. He could not say that Harry Potter did not worry him. The boy’s sorting to Slytherin house and his blood status did not help him to make any friends - but perhaps that was for the best. At least he talked to the Lestrange girl - and that was something that made the headmaster puzzled as well. For an adult, especially one as old as himself, it was obvious what she was trying to do. But children were children, and had the luxury of just doing whatever they wanted, sometimes, carefree and happy.That did give him hope. 

 

Cassiopeia reminded him a bit of Sirius - not that the man would accept that comparison when Albus mentioned the similarities. He would need to remember to do that on the next opportunity.

 

His mind went back to the years before, as they always were when he thought about Harry and Neville. Prophecies were tricky things, and neither the fact that Lily and James had become Death Eaters, neither Frank and Alice defeating Tom had been a condition that satisfied marking either Harry or Neville as an equal. Or so he thought.

 

Two families torn apart in different ways, and those two boys carrying a weight they were unaware of…

 

And then there was Percy Weasley, approaching people that perhaps he should not. 

 

Ignorance would be a bliss, but Albus had long accepted damnation, and decided to make the best of it. He could not turn a blind eyes to what all those things meant. That was how a war began.

 

Voldemort was on the rise again. That was the only explanation for the Dark Mark to become stronger again. If Severus could be trusted, of course. Albus often wondered, with Lily’s betrayal, that his spy had been lost.

 

Sometimes he thought it would be best to ignore the prophecy entirely. That had been more or less the advice given by in a few books. One author that he’d read had gone as far as saying that prophecies should never be trusted. 

 

But the power to change things, to drive the world in the right direction - or the illusion of it, Dumbledore admitted the possibility - was too persuasive.

 

And had not that always been the problem?

**[A/N:** And the plot begins to thicken? **]**


	5. The Price of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry gets in trouble and learns how to cause trouble, makes a deal, and an omniscient narrator spreads a few ominous warnings here and there.

On one side, life at Hogwarts was much better than at the Dursleys. There were no endless chores, food was plenty, there were no relatives to annoy him, and classes were very interesting - even History of Magic was tolerable. On the other, there was a legion of people who disliked him, he sometimes feared for his own safety. And there was Potions, of course.

 

If his first interaction with Snape had been bad, the second had been spectacularly terrible. And the third, and so on. The teacher, Harry noticed, seemed to be on the same boat of ‘let’s hate Harry Potter for whatever it is that his parents did’. He asked questions that were not covered in the book, and when Harry predictably did not know the answer, Snape called him ‘lazy like your father’, or ‘just like your father, thinking yourself better than the rest of us that opening a book is beneath you.’ 

 

Harry did not know where the man got the idea, because if there was something he was acutely aware of was how much he  _ didn’t _ know about magic, and how much he needed to work on that.

 

Not that he would study more Potions just to impress Snape. Besides, he knew that whatever he did would not be enough - it never was, with Uncle Vernon.

 

As a result, he managed to produce two Acceptable potions, and two Poor ones in the first month. The boy knew that he was not brilliant at the subject, but even then, he was sure that Snape had graded at least one potion unfairly. 

 

He also had had three detentions with the man - because Harry would not stand for being treated that way, and talked back during classes. At least he did not take points, and the other Slytherins had one reason less to hate him. And the teacher could not complain about Harry’s work in the detentions - the cauldrons and shelves were spotless by the time he was done. 

 

Despite the problems, he’d managed to continue going to the library. Sometimes he went alone, and in other times Cassiopeia went with him. Now he had a small archive of things related to his parents. Percy Weasley had helped them to make copies of pictures and papers. And he kept it inside a leather bound notebook that the girl had to spare, hidden beneath his pillow. He was careful to not let anyone in Slytherin know what he did. He was sure that they would try to take it away from him, if they did.

 

Today was one of the days that Harry woke up earlier than necessary and stayed in bed, with the curtains pulled, looking at the pictures. Besides the one from their marriage, there was one of their trial and travel to Azkaban. The difference between both of them was painful. 

 

He also kept the texts, despite what was written about his parents in them. And he often read them again, trying to find justifications for what had happened in the middle of those words.

 

James Potter had been arrested and considered guilty of being a follower of Voldemort, and for the murder of two men: Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew. Following that trail, Harry discovered that both of them had been friends of his parents.

 

Lily Potter’s crimes were being a witness of both murders and, like James, bearing the Dark Mark. 

 

Simple math told Harry that he had already been born when those things happened, and he sometimes caught himself thinking about those times. Did his parents leave him with a nanny to go and commit crimes? He did not know what to make of the idea.

 

That led them to Azkaban, for life. 

 

According to what he had learned, only adults could get in Azkaban, and visits were allowed only in some special conditions. Besides, there was no telling the state that his parents would be in. They might not even know who they were, or remember their son.

 

Of all the things that Harry had learned, Dementors were what scared him the most. The creatures caused everlasting damage in people. He could not entertain the idea that his parents might be gone forever, their memories inside one of those vile things.

 

But his parents were not the only topic of Harry’s research. He discovered that Cassiopeia’s parents had a much larger list of crimes. Her mother, Bellatrix Lestrange, had killed dozens of people, both muggle and magical. She’d also tortured people. And Rodolphus Lestrange was much of the same. Harry had a strong impression that he wouldn’t want to meet them. The same could be said from other followers of Voldemort.

 

Even if the boy wouldn’t admit it, sometimes he wondered if Lily and James Potter were truly better than any of those other Death Eaters.

 

All of that made him resent Voldemort. Why had his parents chosen to follow him instead of staying with Harry? 

 

It was a relief that the man had been killed. 

* * *

 

The library probably wasn’t the best place for the conversation they were having, but both Harry and Cassiopeia needed to finish their Charms essays, so that’s where they found themselves discussing the dangerousness - or lack thereof - of muggles. He didn’t even remember how the subject came up. 

 

“And Weasley says that his father told him that muggles have a thing that is like a  _ Bombarda _ spell, only inside a piece of metal. And they throw it at each other. It’s barbaric!”

 

“You are talking about bombs.”

 

“They copied even the name!” Cassiopeia exclaimed, and her voice rose in pitch. 

 

An older student, a Ravenclaw, glared at Harry and Cassiopeia, and then turned back to his books. Lestrange rolled her eyes, but when she spoke, her voice was quiet.

 

“And I think that these… bombards that muggle have are dangerous.  _ They _ are dangerous. And that’s why muggleborns should be watched when they come to our world. Who knows if they aren’t selling our secrets?”

 

Harry sighed. Cassiopeia’s prejudice and ignorance was based on her simply never having met a muggle person in her life. And for someone who thought that wizards were so superior, she seemed too worried about muggles.

 

“Look, that’s a lot of bullshit,” Harry said. “Muggles aren’t dangerous to people who have magic. Like… they have these  _ bombs _ , sure, but the banishing Charm exists. If someone threw a bomb at a wizard or witch, they could simply banish it. And Apparition exists too, and that would be a good escape from an explosion too. And there’s the  _ Imperius _ , which you could use to stop the muggle from even using the bomb.”

 

“Hm… that’s true. But they are still savages.”

 

Harry immediately thought of the Dursleys. Yeah, not a lot to argue when his relatives were on discussion.

 

Still, he needed to get the point across, or he would end up feeling like being a friend of Malfoy, or Parkinson, or any of the Slytherins that interacted with him at all. And it hadn’t happened, but if Harry saw the girl calling a student a  _ mudblood _ , he didn’t know if he would be able to still talk to her. Giving the way her cousin acted, Harry feared that one day  _ it would _ happen, and then he would be alone. Again.

 

“But there’s no reason to persecute the muggleborn. That’s ridiculous. I am not even saying we aren’t better than muggles,” he added, and Cassiopeia smiled, nodding. “Because I have seen a lot in this month here at Hogwarts, and magic is too powerful for anything muggles can build. All I am saying is that we should just keep both world separated. And that muggleborn are magical, not muggle. They are not selling our secrets. Any muggle who is important would never believe in magic.”

 

That magic was not nonsense was still a heady notion, even for the eleven year old. 

 

“But they are going to steal our magic and give it to muggles.”

 

“Has anyone done that before?”

 

“Well, no, but there are dark spells which are about transferring magic, you know. We should just take the muggleborns from muggles, before they can be contaminated with their ideas. I mean, have you seen Granger?”

 

Well, Harry had seen Granger. It was hard not to, when the girl answered every question that the teachers asked. She earned a lot of points for Gryffindor, except in Potions. No surprise there, since Snape was an ass to everyone not in Slytherin, and anyone called Harry Potter. But Granger was doing well, at least in the classes that Slytherin shared with Gryffindor. 

 

“What about her? She does well in class,” which only proved that muggleborn deserved to be at Hogwarts.

 

“Well, she only repeats what books say. I could do that too. I mean, at least she tries… but that’s not what I was talking about. I heard her discussing how magic is simply another form of energy that could be studied. All Gryffindor heard that. And it’s ridiculous. It goes against our tradition! Magic is inherent to a wizard, and you can’t separate them to study or whatever it is that she wants to do. Even Weasley, with his muggle loving father, thought she was mental when she said that.”

 

Harry did not know if giving magic to a muggle was possible. But he wouldn’t want that to happen. 

 

Perhaps Cassiopeia had a point. Still, she needed to see that muggles were not what she thought, even if only to stop her fear of them, and that muggleborns were not a problem. 

 

“You should go to muggle London with me.”

 

“Are you mad?!” She asked loudly, and the Ravenclaw boy glared at them again. 

 

Harry shrugged. 

 

“You could see for yourself how inoffensive they are, for wizards. And that no one is stealing magic. ”

 

Cassiopeia bit her lip. “I don’t know if Aunt would allow.”

 

“I think… that you are afraid of muggles,” Harry teased. 

 

The girl narrowed her eyes, and that was when the resemblance to her mother - whose pictures he’d seen on papers - became more obvious. Bellatrix Lestrange looked fierce and focused. In one of the pictures, after her sentence had been dealt, she threw her head back and laughed, and then looked at the camera, as if challenging whoever had taken the photo. Harry had definitely not looked twice at that. It was creepy.

 

“I am  _ not _ afraid of muggles! I simply see no reason to go and… meet them.”

 

“Come on, Cassiopeia. Aren’t you even a bit curious?” Then Harry had a brilliant idea. “You could visit my relatives. They would have a heart attack to have another child whose parents are in prison in their home.”

 

Harry laughed only imagining Aunt Petunia’s face. 

 

“Okay. Maybe I would like to do that… but I really think that Aunt wouldn’t let me.”

 

“They don’t let you go out alone for anything?” 

 

“I suppose they could let me go to Diagon Alley by myself to buy my school supplies. But that will be only next year.”

 

“Well, we can wait.”

 

But Harry admitted only to himself that he was very much looking forward to that.

 

“Maybe we could invite Weasley too.”

 

“Which one?” Harry asked.

 

“Ron - the one we met on the train.”

 

“He’s talking to you now?”

 

“Well, his older brother kind of insisted, and my cousin has been bothering him, so we are just… united against Draco.”

 

“Oh. Are you going to do anything against him?” Harry could use some help.

 

“For now it is enough that I talk to Weasleys, I guess. And I wouldn’t do anything to truly hurt Draco, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

Well, worry definitely wasn’t what he was feeling about Draco Malfoy, but he thought better not to say that.

 

“And do you think that  _ his _ parents would let him go out with us?” Harry asked. 

 

“We can deal with that. If I can find a way to go, so can Weasley.”

 

Harry smiled. He felt better now, he thought that Cassiopeia could hear his ideas - if only to repeat his words at home and annoy her relatives. But what he said made sense, and she had to see that. 

 

Right?

* * *

 

“Mr. Potter, stay after class,” Professor McGonagall said. The other students were already leaving, after her dismissal, and Harry remained sitting while he waited the classroom to be emptied. 

 

He stared at the work he had done. It was a really neat thing. A wood button transfigured into a metallic one. It had acquired a silver color, and it shone as the light fell on it. 

 

McGonagall sat at her desk, and called Harry to come and sit in front of her, and bring the transfigured button with him.

 

“How are you settling at the school, Mr. Potter?”

 

“I like it here,” Harry replied. 

 

The witch gave a slight sigh. She extended her hand, palm up, and asked for the button.

 

“You see, Mr. Potter, this is a very good piece of Transfiguration. The corners are flawless, and the surface is smooth. This means that you are capable of performing well in this subject, when you do apply yourself. What happened in the last class? Your work was much subpar then.”

 

Harry bit his lip. He was sure that the truth would not be enough to convince McGonagall that yes, he could do well in her class. 

 

“Malfoy had been provoking me before that class, and then one of his friends threw a spell at me. I spent that whole day very tired, and I couldn’t concentrate.”

 

Which was why he had managed to transfigure only half of the piece of cloth into paper. 

 

“Do you know who was the student that cursed you?” 

 

The boy shrugged. “He is an older student, I don’t know his name.”

 

“I see. And is that a common occurrence in your house?”

 

“You know it is,” Harry said. “Madam,” he added when she glared at him. 

 

“I know that you were not welcome there, but I am not privy to everything that happens in Slytherin. Have you told any of this to Professor Snape?”

 

Harry snorted. 

 

“I bet he knows and lets it happen.”

 

“That is a dire accusation, Mr. Potter. I believe that Professor Snape may be a demanding teacher, and perhaps not someone whom I’d call nice, but I don’t think that he would allow children in his care to be harmed.”

 

Predictable reaction. Adults were always trying to side together, and treat children as idiots. 

 

“Well, he knows that they hate me because I am not pureblood. And he picks at me in Potions, in front of the other Slytherins. Of course he knows everything.”

 

Maybe Snape hated Harry because of his dirty blood too - in addition to his being James Potter’s son. 

 

“I wish I’d been your house,” Harry said. “You’re much nicer than Snape, and Cassiopeia is Gryffindor - you don’t let anything bad happen to her, right? And my parents were there too,” he added the last bit quietly, feeling his cheeks burn. Did McGonagall even like to have Death Eaters associated with her house?

 

“I will tell you one thing, Mr. Potter. Despite whatever people tell you about your parents, and despite the mistakes that they did commit, you should not feel ashamed. I was their head of house, and I am sure that they would be proud of you. The Lily and James that I did know. They would admire how you do not give in to the pressure of your peers, and your companionship and loyalty to your friend. Rest assured that they would not care about which house you are in,” she paused. “And of course I don’t let anything happen to Ms. Lestrange, I care for all my students.”

 

Harry liked to believe that, but he also had the slight impression that whoever McGonagall was talking about, those people were very different from James and Lily Potter. After all, how could they appreciate loyalty if they’d killed two of their friends?

 

“But I asked you to stay after class for another reason,” McGonagall continued. “While your practical work has inconsistencies when it comes to its quality, your theoretical work is consistently below average - and that has not gone unnoticed by most of the teachers. I am told that you spend a lot of time in the library. Is there another reason, besides fights within your house, that could justify this? Frankly, you could much better in most subjects, and that is clear.”

 

“I spend a lot of time in the library, but I mostly just read old editions of the Prophet - there’s stuff about my parents in them. I don’t study much.”

 

McGonagall simply pursed her lips and nodded. 

 

“Well, then I suppose that you ought to organize your time better. It is understandable that you want to know about Lily and James, but I don’t think that the Prophet is the best source of information. And you need to divide your time between that and your obligations. I will… talk to a few people - and I also knew your parents.”

 

Oh. Harry could see where this was going, and he felt hope grow inside. He looked at McGonagall with expectation.

 

“We can make a deal. I don’t have much time, but I can offer to help you with any difficult you may encounter with Transfiguration, and to tell you a few things about your parents. Provided, of course, that you start to dedicate a part of your time to your studies.”

 

“You would, really? Tell me about them, I mean.”

 

“I just said that. You are too young to understand these things, but suffice it to say that, in many ways, I see that as my duty. But what I want to know is if you are inclined to keep your end of the bargain.”

 

Study magic in exchange for bits of things about his parents? That did not sound bad at all.

 

Harry nodded. “Yes, Madam. I’ll read everything in the library if you ask me.”

 

McGonagall’s lips quirked, and she shook her head.

 

“Nothing that extreme, Mr. Potter. All I want is that you start to read the texts  _ before _ class, and not write your essays at the last minute. I am sure that by simply doing this your performance will improve.”

 

“Okay, I can do that.”

 

“Good,” she said with a pleased smile. “Then in four weeks from now we can meet again and discuss your work, and until then I expect to have a few things about Lily and James to give you.”

 

“Thank you so much, Professor!” Harry almost shouted. He really wanted to show how much he appreciated what McGonagall was doing for him, but didn’t know how to express it. 

 

“You are welcome. Now go, you still have to eat your lunch, and I am sure your friend must be looking for you.”

 

“Alright,” he said and rose from the chair. “Thank you again. I promise you that I’ll do everything right!” 

 

And then he practically bolted from the classroom. He needed to tell that to Cassiopeia.

 

Lunch and dinner were much the same for Harry. He ate as quick as he could - which earned him some looks from the other children, but that was something he was used to, by now - and then he left the Great Hall so that he could either go to the library or talk to Cassiopeia. And today, when he wanted to share the good news with her, the girl was nowhere to be seen. 

 

Still, he had his deal with McGonagall, and so using the time he had between lunch and the Charms class to study seemed like a good idea. 

 

After eating, he left and went to the dungeons, to get his Charms text. A few older students were in the common room, and snickered when he passed by them. Not unusual, but the lack of direct provocation was. Harry didn’t understand what that was about, at least until he reached his room.

 

His things were scattered over his bed. The leather bound notebook was open, and a pile of ashes rested on it. He knew that those were the remnants of the pictures. His books were all wet, and all of his muggle clothes were torn to pieces. 

 

He stood there, looking at the mess, unaware of anything else. A buzz filled his ears. All of the work he’d done, wasted. A sharp pain in his hands made him look down at his palms, at the small bloody signs of crescent moons, where his nails had torn the skin, were. 

 

His eyes burned, and when he blinked a few tears ran down his face. He scrubbed his eyes roughly, using the sleeve of his robes to dry his cheeks. 

 

There was no reason to cry! He could get other pictures, and he could buy new clothes. Maybe he could even dry the books with a spell. But he still felt hot with rage, and wanted to hurt whoever had done that.

 

But he didn’t know enough magic for that. He could not fight with older students, or he would lose. And he would get even more detentions. Snape would do nothing to help him. 

 

Probably none of the teachers would help Harry to get revenge on other students, which meant that he would need to learn how to make things happen without being noticed. 

 

Perhaps McGonagall’s offer had come in good time, he had a lot of studying to do. 

* * *

 

The Charms classroom was still empty when Harry arrived. Professor Flitwick was sitting on a chair, reading a book and making notes on a parchment. 

 

“Excuse me, Professor,” Harry said. 

 

“Mr. Potter? Come in. What brings you here so early,” the teacher looked at the watch on his wrist, “the class will begin only in thirty-three minutes.”

 

“I was wondering if you could help me with something, Sir.”

 

“Of course. Sit here,” he pointed to a chair in front of his desk. “What has happened?”

 

Harry put the book that he’d been holding on his arms over the table.

 

“I was wondering if you know how I can dry this book. All of my books are like this. Is there a charm for this?” 

 

“Mr. Potter! How did this happen?” 

 

“Someone did this, Sir. They also burned pictures I had of my parents, and destroyed my clothes.”

 

Flitwick shook his head. “And where did that happen?”

 

“In my room. All of my stuff was either under my pillow or under my bed.”

 

“That’s an absurd. Have you talked to Professor Snape about it? He needs to be informed.”

 

“Please, don’t tell him that, Sir. Snape hates me, and he will say that I am lying. I just need to dry my books and it will be fine. I don’t care about what the other Slytherins do.”

 

Flitwick stared at Harry for a long time, as if he was searching for something. 

 

“I can teach you the spell, Mr. Potter. It’s not very complicated. Come on, stand up.”

 

Flitwick made a movement in the air with his right hand. He moved his hand from one side to the other on the horizontal. 

 

“The correct movement is this. Like waves on the sea. Try it.”

 

Harry repeated the movement.

 

“Almost that. But do not let your hand become heavy. It’s a light, subtle movement.”

 

Harry tried again, following the teacher’s instruction. 

 

“Right. Now, the incantation for it is  _ Xeros _ , like that,” Flitwick pointed his hand at the blackboard, and waved his wand, and the word appeared. “You should pronounce the ‘X’ as if it were an ‘sh’, and the ‘r’ is soft. Repeat after me,  _ Xeros _ .”

 

The boy repeated, and the ‘r’ sounded strange for his ears.

 

“That is correct, Mr. Potter. Now you can try the incantation and the movement at the same time.”

 

Harry did it, and looked at Flitwick with expectation.

 

“Good. Now you can do it with the wand, and try to dry the book.”

 

Harry turned to the book and executed the spell. 

 

“ _ Xeros, _ ” he muttered and then touched the book to see if it had dried. “It worked!” Harry said, and smiled.

 

“You can repeat the spell now, to make sure that all of the pages are dry.”

 

Harry did as the professor told. 

 

“Marvellous, Mr. Potter. It is noticeable that you could become very skilled at Charms if you apply yourself to that.”

 

“It’s a just simple spell,” Harry said.

 

“A simple spell, yes, but you showed an ease to perform it. You have a particularly easy time with the pronunciation. Have you studied any foreign language before coming to Hogwarts?”

 

“No, Sir.”

 

As if Uncle Vernon would ever pay for Harry to learn languages!

 

“Well, then. Keep working on Charms, and you can do really well.”

 

Harry looked down at the book, now dry, but its pages continued wrinkled.

 

“How can I fix it?” he asked.

 

“Why, Mr. Potter, you have already learned a spell for that.”

 

Harry frowned, trying to remember what Flitwick was referring to.

 

“It’s  _ Reparo _ , Mr. Potter.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Then Flitwick cast a  _ Reparo _ , and the book’s pages were smooth again. 

 

“See? Good as new. Unfortunately there is nothing to be done for the burned pictures.”

 

“They were only copies,” Harry said. “Thank you so much, Professor! You helped a lot with this spell.”

 

“You are welcome. It’s always a satisfaction to see a new generation learning, just like I learned long ago… oh, but don’t let me tire you with this talk - I am feeling like Albus now,” Flitwick laughed. “I will go to my office, I need to take a few things that we will be using in class. You can stay here until the class time.”

 

Harry sat in one of the desks that were closer to the door, on the back of the class. He felt incredibly pleased with himself. He opened the Charms book, and began to read. 

 

Now he knew one spell to correct the damage, and the next obvious step was to learn the ones that would prevent it. 

* * *

 

On Halloween, Harry decided to try something new. Instead of eating at the Slytherin table, he strode past it and sat with the Gryffindors, in front of Lestrange and Weasley.

 

Cassiopeia looked at him, her eyes wide, and then she laughed. Her face turned a shade of pink. Beside her, Ron Weasley laughed as well, his skin turning as red as his hair. A bit far from where Harry sat were Longbottom and Granger, both sitting together and reading the same book. They stopped to look at Harry with wide eyes, but resumed their thing when the Slytherin stared back.

 

“I like it,” Cassiopeia said. 

 

“Glad that you approve,” Harry replied. He glanced at the Slytherin table and noticed that many of the snakes had their heads turned toward the Gryffindor table.

 

“But you’re not a Gryffindor,” Weasley said. 

 

“Whatever, Weasley,” Harry replied. “Aren’t you afraid of Cassiopeia’s parents anymore?”

 

Weasley looked down. “Well, she’s a Gryffindor. I figured she can’t be that bad. And they are in Azkaban, there’s no reason to be afraid… er, sorry.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t know about you, but I want to eat,” he said, and began to fill a plate for him.

 

“And Harry is a Slytherin, but he’s my friend. And he’s going to help us.”

 

“Help you with what?” 

 

“With Malfoy.” Weasley replied.

 

“Lower your voice!” Cassiopeia hissed. “You don’t want the whole school to know.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Harry watched the exchange, waiting for some explanation.

 

“So. What am I going to help you with?”

 

“Draco wrote to his father about my sorting, and told him that I am choosing the wrong company, and Uncle Lucius has threatened to not let me travel to France during the Christmas holidays. And we’ll visit the Rosiers, I can’t miss that!” Cassiopeia said.

 

“And I think he wrote to my mother, telling her that I’ve been talking to Slytherins, and she sent me a Howler.” Ron added, blushing. 

 

“He needs to pay,” Cassiopeia finished. 

 

“Pay someone to kidnap and abandon him in muggle London,” Harry suggested. “He’ll be terrified. Then take a picture of him  _ with _ the muggles, print it in flyers and distribute it in the school.”

 

Ron gaped. “Mate, you’re worse than her.”

 

“We weren’t thinking of something that extreme, Harry.”

 

The Slytherin shrugged, and took a bite of the chicken. That was a brilliant idea, in his opinion.

 

“We thought of spelling his hair to be another color, but with a lasting charm.”

 

“That’s dumb,” Harry replied. “It’s inoffensive,” he added when Cassiopeia glared at him. “He got you into trouble with your family, so you should do the same.”

 

“That makes sense,” Weasley said.

 

“You should write to his mother,” Harry told Ron. “And thank her for the invitation to spend the summer at the Malfoy’s.”

 

“Potter, that’s mental.”

 

Harry ignored the comment.

 

“And you,” he looked at Cassiopeia. “Will write to your aunt complaining that Draco has invited Weasley to your home. You’ll make it look as if your cousin had invited Weasley to your home, to try and make it look like you did it.”

 

“You will decline the offer in your letter, of course,” Harry told Weasley. “Because your mother would never allow it.”

 

“That’s… wow. It’s a cool idea,” Ron said, but then he stopped and scratched his chin. “What if Malfoy’s mother asks for the letter of invitation?”

 

“Oh, we’ll have a letter to show her,” Harry said, feeling just a bit smug. “I can easily find a parchment with his handwriting, and then we just need to find a way to imitate it.”

 

Cassiopeia laughed. “Draco will be so screwed.”

 

“If we can’t find a spell, I can try to do it just by looking. I did fake a few signatures from my relatives.”

 

“That’s so cool!” Weasley said, and Harry felt only a bit proud. 

 

“I’ll need an example of how Draco would write it, though. I think you know him best to do that,” Harry told Cassiopeia. 

 

Harry preferred to really abandon Draco Malfoy - and a few other Slytherins - in muggle London. But he would make the best of what he had at the moment. 

 

“Oh shit,” Weasley whispered and began to eat, keeping his eyes focused solely on his plate. Cassiopeia’s face was frozen in a mask, and when Harry glanced to their right, Longbottom was as pale as a sheet of paper.

 

“Potter.”

 

Oh. Really? 

 

Harry turned around and looked at Snape. The teacher’s nose was wrinkled, as if he’d smelled something rotten - and from what the boy knew, Snape imagined that all students were spoiled fruits waiting to be chopped and used in potions. 

 

“Sir.”

 

“What are doing at the Gryffindor table?” Snape asked through gritted teeth.

 

“Hum… sitting. Sir.”

 

Harry heard someone laughs behind him, and imagined that it must Weasley. Cassiopeia usually could hold the laughter better.

 

Snape’s nostrils flared, and when he spoke, Harry had the impression that the man was trying very hard not to shout.

 

“Why are you not at the Slytherin table?” 

 

“Because I wanted to sit here today. With my friends.”

 

“Of course, Potter  _ wanted _ to do something, and so he did. Remove yourself from the Gryffindor table and go back to where you belong. Now.”

 

Harry figured that he already had a detention, so he might as well enjoy himself.

 

“Is there anything that forbiddens me from eating at Gryffindor table, Professor? Because I looked at the Hogwarts Regiment, and there is nothing about being obligated to sit at the table from my house.”

 

“So he knows how to read.”

 

Snape talking about Harry as if he wasn’t right there in front of him was creepy as hell. The teacher pinched the bridge of his nose and looked down at the boy with a sneer.

 

“Detention. Friday, 7 o’clock. And bring your two  _ friends _ with you.”

 

Then Snape left, with his black robes billowing behind him, and he looked like a villain from a muggle movie. 

 

Harry turned, and looked at Cassiopeia and Ron. The three of them burst out laughing. 

 

“That was great. ‘Sitting. Sir’,” he imitated Harry. “Brilliant.”

 

“And we earned a detention because you couldn’t stop laughing!” the girl complained.

 

Ron groaned. “It was worth. Totally.”

 

Harry agreed.

* * *

 

The plan against Draco Malfoy was put in practice as soon as Harry could get his hands on the blond’s Potions essay. 

 

In the end, they had not found a spell to imitate the handwriting, and Harry had to do it himself.

 

“You said that you faked your relatives’ signatures. Why?” Ron asked.

 

“I wanted to visit the zoo with the school. The visit was free, but my aunt and uncle would never allow it. It was the only way to go. It was easy.”

 

“What is a zoo?” Cassiopeia asked. 

 

“It’s a park where people keep more dangerous animals like lions and snakes, and elephants. Stuff like that. We can go and look at them. It’s really cool.”

 

One of Harry’s fondest memories was of him seeing the baby lions that had been born recently at the time of his visit. 

 

“My mother would never let me go to a place like that. Charlie wants to work with Dragons, but Mother is almost getting crazy about that.”

 

“I didn’t know they are real,” Harry said.

 

“Who?” Weasley asked.

 

“Dragons. Muggles tell stories about them, but they know that dragons don’t really exist.”

 

Cassiopeia sighed. “Of course they are real.”

 

“I know that now, okay?” 

 

Harry put two written parchments to his left. One was Malfoy’s essay, and the other was the letter written by Cassiopeia. In front of him was the one he would use to merge the curves of the first and the words of the second. Carefully, he began to test how to do it, writing just a few words. The other two children sat in front of him, and their eyes followed every move of Harry’s hand. It made him feel unnerved.

 

“It kinda looks like his writing,” Weasley commented. 

 

“Could you two stop watching me like an animal under a microscope?”

 

“What’s a microscope?” the girl asked.

 

“It’s a thing that muggles use to look at tiny things. It’s for study,” Harry replied. He stopped writing, waiting for them to look away. “Why don’t you work on your letters? You are making me feel nervous.”

 

“Fine.” Cassiopeia said, and moved away to get her quill and parchment. Weasley did the same.

 

Harry continued to copy the letter. Sometimes he made a mistake, and needed to use a spell to correct it. He was quickly learning that imitating someone’s writing was much easier when it was just a signature. Still, he was pleased with his work. Maybe the first few lines would need to be rewritten, but the rest would work. 

 

Silence reigned as they worked, and Harry resented Weasley’s presence there. He couldn’t talk about his parents, and the things he’d learned from McGonagall. Cassiopeia was different, in a way she understood what it felt like only knowing your parents were terrible criminals, but not really knowing them. And she wouldn’t try to change the subject when it came to Death Eaters and things like that.

 

Harry didn’t even understand how the boy ended up with them.

 

It seemed like the line ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ was true after all.

 

Of course, it would take a few years for Harry, or any of them, to understand that in full.

 

“I finished the letter,” Harry said, passing the parchment to the other two. “What do you think?” 

 

“It’s good. I think that my aunt will believe that Draco wrote this. But I think we should wait to send them… at least until we are closer to Christmas Hols. Then they will be cross with him, and they will not have an excuse to leave me behind.”

 

“That’s all cool,” Weasley said. “But I want to know when his mother will send him a Howler.”

 

Cassiopeia snorted. 

 

“Aunt would never do something like that. She will just punish him at home.”

 

That was fine with Harry. He just needed Malfoy to know that he was responsible for the trouble. It didn’t really matter if he were punished or not.

 

“She won’t curse Malfoy, right?” Weasley asked.

 

“What?”

 

“Your aunt, she won’t use curses to punish Draco, will she?”

 

“Who said that?”

 

“Well, my brothers told me that Malfoy acts like a prat because he’s brain damaged because of too many curses…”

 

“Your brothers are idiots,” Cassiopeia said, shaking her head. “Of course Aunt doesn’t curse Draco. She wouldn’t harm a hair on his head, and Merlin knows that it would do him some good.”

 

“Okay then,” Weasley said. “Because I wouldn’t do this, if Malfoy was going to be… hurt.”

 

Harry liked that idea. He also didn’t want to cause serious trouble for anyone. It was good to see that the Gryffindor agreed with him.

* * *

 

Lily Potter looked at the walls of her cell. Fifty three dots were drawn there. They were from a time when she still bothered with awareness of time. Now, most things did not matter. She didn’t even notice them. Time lost its meaning after a few too many encounters with a Dementor.

 

Most of the time, she was aware of three things: the cold, the darkness, and that one memory of Harry in her arms, his eyes blinking with tiredness, and his small hand curled around her thumb.

 

Sometimes, when the Dementors came, she would see other memories. 

 

The trial, and her shame being exposed for all to see. The crimes, the betrayed looks. Dumbledore’s disappointment.

 

And then pain beyond what she could imagine, beyond what she thought that could be tolerable. And in her skin the terrible, terrible mark that she’d learned to hate and that had then, in her and James’ arms, become a twisted symbol of hope. 

 

Screams and fights. 

 

Remus falling down, with a transfigured piece of silver in his heart. 

 

She, raising her wand against Peter.  _ No one must know _ . 

 

A green light, two corpses, now. 

 

The prophecy.

 

Aurors finding them, taking Harry away from her arms, her screams, and her son crying, calling for her, for his father…  

 

But she held onto the knowledge that all of those things had happened for a reason. She loved her son, and that had to be a good motive to do everything she’d done. 

 

Harry in her arms was the one thing that they would not take away. 

 

Sometimes, in days like these, when the moon shone bright in the sky, and small threads of light entered the cell, Lily Potter would look at the other prisoners, and wonder if they were all people. Were humans supposed to look that pale, and thin. Should they laugh and scream at the walls?

 

She only knew how Harry was supposed to look like. The rest did not matter.

 

Someone in one of the other cells began to sing. It was just a tune at first, and the occasional laugh. She had to concentrate to discern the voice.

 

“He is coming. The Dark Lord is coming. He will take me out of here.”

 

It was a female voice, which meant that it was probably Bellatrix.

 

“I can feel that he is rising again. My Lord is not dead. He’s conquered death!” she continued to sing.

 

Lily covered her ears. That had to be a lie. A life in Azkaban would be a good price to pay for Harry’s freedom and safety. 

 

That had to be a lie. 

 

But then why was the Dark Mark becoming stronger in her forearm? She could see it under the moonlight. Ugly and a permanent reminder of what she’d done.

 

Why did it burn sometimes?

 

A few minutes before, away from Azkaban, and in the east side of France, a wizard strode past the protecting enchantments around the perimeter of his house. He never heard a sound, but a sudden darkness fell over his eyes. When he could see again, it felt as if he were away from his body. His legs moved, but he didn’t remember commanding them to do so. 

 

He didn’t understand why he felt so euphoric. A wave of disgust hit him, and the strangest thing was that it was directed toward himself.

 

“ _ Pathetic _ ,” he heard a voice say, at the same time that his own lips moved. 

 

_ But this will do, for now _ . 

 

With a sound, he Disapparated, and found himself in front of a beautiful, huge house. It was an unknown place, and not where he was supposed to be.  He should be at the restaurant, where he would meet with Marie…

 

He walked up to the house, and didn’t even bother to knock. Instead, he waved his wand and the locking charm dissolved, as if it had never been there.

 

How had he done that? He was just a common wizard, and young at that, he knew nothing about advanced spells. 

 

Another wave of foreign emotion, this time amusement mixed with pride. 

 

He didn’t understand what was happening. And he never would.

* * *

 

By the time the Christmas Holidays approached, Harry had gained many things from McGonagall. He had one Defense book that had belonged to his father - it was a fourth year text, so Harry had a bit of difficulty to understand it. He had a few pictures taken of them during Quidditch celebrations and things like that. And he had a few report cards from them as well - copies, of course.

 

He noticed that up until his parents’ fifth year, there were only pictures of them separated. It was only from then on that they appeared together. Which meant that despite being in the same house, it had taken some time for them to become at least friends.

 

Harry wrote down all those sorts of observations. He continued to keep all of those inside the notebook, but now he had learned one spell to hide it. 

 

The Charms book said that the spell was something like a  _ Fidelius _ Charm, only much weaker. He had no idea what a  _ Fidelius _ was, but apparently it wasn’t necessary for his purpose. Different from that charm, though, the one that Harry used affected a small area, and could be detected and deactivated by someone other than the caster, and it didn’t involve storing a secret.

 

With that many differences that were pointed out in the book, Harry wondered how the two spells could be similar. Maybe he would ask Professor Flitwick about that.

 

What mattered was that no one had touched his things again.

 

“I am telling you - Cassiopeia is behind this, Vincent. She’s absolutely a nightmare. She’s… mixing with Weasleys, and she is Gryffindor. And now they have fooled my mother. But this won’t end well for her.”

 

Malfoy’s voice was high as he complained and promised suffering for whoever had caused him trouble. Behind the curtains of his bed, Harry laughed quietly and prepared himself for a little talk with Draco.

 

“… and now Mother thinks that  _ I _ invited Weasley to our home. As if I’d ever.”

 

Harry put the notebook beneath his pillow, and opened his Transfiguration book. He spelled the curtains around the bed open, and held his wand on his left hand. 

 

“Is there a problem, Malfoy? I am trying to read here.”

 

Draco sneered, but otherwise ignored Harry. Instead, he put his trunk on his bed and began to put his clothes inside it.

 

“Seems like you are in trouble,” Harry said. “Maybe you should pay more attention to where you leave your things. Like your Potions essay. People could pick it up and use for other things.”

 

Malfoy slowly turned to face Harry, his wand in hand. But Harry was quicker, and pointed his wand at the other boy. 

 

“I don’t want trouble, Malfoy. But if you cause me trouble you can be sure that I won’t keep quiet. And you should leave your cousin alone. She’s my friend.”

 

“This won’t end here, Potter.”

 

Harry thought so. He would be fine either way. 

 

Marge, Uncle Vernon’s sister, had a few dogs. Some were really dangerous, but others were all bark and no bite. He suspected that Malfoy fit the second category.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next chapter, where a few Christmas gifts are distributed, whether they are wanted or not. 
> 
> As I have mentioned before, “Mirror” is already mostly written, but I revise the chapters as I post them. But I have a problem right now. I was fleshing out a few scenes from - much - later chapters, and their rating certainly isn’t T (the reason is violence). That made me change the rating of the whole work to M. If anyone who has already started reading this while I had marked it as T feels uncomfortable with violent scenes, please send me a PM, and when the time comes, I can send you an edited version of those chapters.


	6. Faith

**Chapter 6 - Faith**

Christmas at Hogwarts was an experience that Harry didn't think he would soon forget. The school was decorated with trees and colorful lights, but that wasn't the best thing about it. Most students left to meet with their families, and Harry felt as if he owned the entire castle - and wasn't that a crazy idea? He missed his friends, but having so much freedom was refreshing. Sure, Cassiopeia wasn't there to chat, nor Ron, but that also meant almost no Slytherins down in the dungeons, and no one to annoy him.

A few of the teachers left too. Harry bet that Snape would hide in some dark place, because the joy and color of Christmas were probably too much for him.

He arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast. There were a few other students already eating, but no one that he knew. The floating candles had been spelled to change colors every so often, and they were distracting. Harry ate, and kept paying attention to them.

For the first time, not receiving gifts did not bother Harry. Magic, and Hogwarts, his parents - even if they were away - and friends were the best gift he could ever ask for.

Dumbledore entered the hall, dressed in magenta robes, and greeted the students. Suddenly Harry imagined the face of Aunt Petunia if the headmaster, and not McGonagall, had been the one to bring him his Hogwarts letter. While the Transfiguration teacher looked like an old fashioned person, by muggle standards, at least she was discreet. And that was not one of Dumbledore's qualities.

The first-year did not take long to eat, though. He had a lot to study, and a short time to accomplish a goal in the deadline he had set himself.

After breakfast, Harry lost track of time. None of the other Slytherin first years had stayed at Hogwarts, and he could use their room to practice spells. And that was how be spent the day - reading theory, practicing and resting in between.

He had one goal: to learn the _Patronus_ charm during the holidays.

Sure, the book said that a few adults couldn't perform the spell correctly, and that producing Corporeal _Patronus_ was very difficult, but Harry wouldn't let that stop him from trying.

For some reason, he thought that it would be necessary in the future. It was used against Dementors, so Harry needed to learn it.

_Think of a happy memory_.

Harry thought of the day McGonagall brought him his letter. He remembered the emotion that flooded him then, as he learned about magic.

Then he cast the spell.

" _Expecto Patronum_!"

Nothing happened.

He tried not to feel disappointed. For God's sake, he hadn't managed to cast even _Wingardium leviosa_ on his first try.

He checked his pronunciation, repeating the incantation a few times. He repeated the movement.

He tried again.

Nothing.

Maybe… the memory wasn't happy enough? The boom mentioned an 'extraordinarily happy memory', and Harry wasn't even sure what that meant.

He _had_ been happy to learn about magic.

This time, before casting the spell, Harry focused on the memory of Professor McGonagall telling him about his parents, at the moment he learned that they weren't dead.

With that in mind, Harry cast the spell.

A thin white thing that looked like light and mist left his wand, but it quickly vanished.

" _Expecto Patronum_!" he cast again, this time saying the words louder.

The result was the same as before, just the hint of the charm.

Harry sat on the bed, feeling tired. His stomach grumbled, and he wondered if it was already dinner time. Someone knocked on the door, and he jumped.

"Who is there?" He asked, gripping his wand.

The door opened, and Dumbledore's head appeared. Harry relaxed.

"Headmaster."

"Good evening, Mr. Potter. May I come in?"

"Good evening, Sir. Of course."

Dumbledore entered, and he was carrying something on his hands. It looked like clothes, a cloak or something.

"You weren't in the Great Hall for lunch, and I'd hoped you would be there for dinner, but you were not."

Harry tried to gauge whether Dumbledore was criticizing him for that or not.

"I am sorry, Sir. I… lost track of time," he replied, biting his lip.

Dumbledore chuckled, and the wrinkles around his eyes moved. He conjured a chair and sat down.

"It's ok, Mr. Potter. Dinner hasn't ended yet, so you still have time to eat. What have you been doing here all day?"

"I've been practicing, Sir."

"I couldn't help but hear you before I knocked. Are you trying to learn the _Patronus_ Charm?"

Harry nodded.

"But I haven't cast it yet."

"It is a difficult spell, Harry, and you are still a first year. Many adults can't cast it."

"Can you, Sir?" Harry blurted.

"Yes, Harry."

Then Dumbledore drew his wand, and waved it in the movement that Harry had memorized.

" _Expecto Patronum_!"

A white, luminous bird left the wand, and it flew around the room, illuminating the walls. Harry gaped, and felt only a little jealous of that.

It was so beautiful!

"Wow! That's awesome, Sir."

Dumbledore smiled. "I admit that this a quite interesting spell. Visually stunning, isn't it?"

"What did you think of?" Harry asked. "The memory… for the spell, I mean."

The headmaster looked startled, and an expression that Harry could not discern appeared on his face, but it was gone as quick as it had come.

"I think of the past, Mr. Potter. Of my family."

Oh. Dumbledore looked sometimes like a superior being, that it was hard to imagine that he had a family.

"How do you know that this is the right memory?" Harry asked.

"What do you mean?"

"How do you know that it is extraordinarily happy? Because I am not sure that I have one of those."

The Headmaster frowned.

"For me it works naturally, and I believe that it may be the case for everyone. I simply know, because that's how I remember that day. There is no doubt of what I felt on that moment."

Harry nodded. That made sense.

"But why do you think you don't have a sufficiently happy memory?" Dumbledore asked. "There are other reasons for the spell not to work."

The boy shrugged. "I just think I don't."

"Then you should endeavor to make more happy memories, child. Which brings me to this," Dumbledore said, and gave Harry the bundle of cloth that he had in his hands. "That is a gift for you. This cloak belonged to your father."

Harry's eyes widened, and he opened the cloak, holding it in front of him. There was something weird about the fabric. It looked a bit transparent. He frowned.

"That's an invisibility cloak, Harry."

"Really?" Harry asked, his voice high. "It's brilliant, Sir! Thank you."

"As I said, it belonged to your father. The cloak was with Sirius, and he thought that it should be given to you."

"He should have given it to me himself then," Harry said.

"Sorry, I didn't mean that _you_ shouldn't give it to me… just that he…" he scratched his neck, and fell silent, not wanting to make things worse.

"I understand what you meant, Mr. Potter. And I ask you to be patient with Sirius. He has lived through a lot, and there are many painful memories that he still needs to sort out."

"Is it about Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore sighed.

"You shouldn't know about that. But yes, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew are part of the story."

"But none of that was my fault!" Harry protested.

"Of course not, Harry. Don't ever think that," Dumbledore replied, combing his beard with his hands. "But sometimes it is hard to sort out our emotions and feelings, and they get entangled in relations that do not always make sense."

"Adults are too complicated," Harry said.

The Headmaster laughed aloud.

"Wise words, Mr. Potter, wise words. Enjoy this uncomplicated time, it goes away much faster than you would assume," Dumbledore said, his lips quirking in a smile - but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Harry stood up, and put the cloak over his back, and looked down.

His body had disappeared!

He loved magic.

"Thank you, Sir!"

"You are welcome, Harry. I only ask that you do not use this cloak as a way to break the curfew, or to go to places where you shouldn't be."

"Like the Forbidden Forest?"

"Exactly."

"I won't, Sir."

"Then it is all settled. Don't forget to go the Great Hall and eat dinner. Now I must go," Dumbledore said and stood up, waving his wand and vanishing the conjured chair. He walked and stopped by the door. "I wish you success in your endeavor to cast a _Patronus_."

"Thank you, Sir. I will do my best."

"Good night, Mr. Potter."

"Good night, Headmaster."

An invisibility cloak! That was an incredible gift. He could barely wait to show it to Cassiopeia and Ron. Harry wanted to play with the cloak now, but he really was hungry. He folded the cloak and put it beneath his pillow. The protective charm would be enough for now, since no one was staying at Hogwarts. But he would need to find a better protection for the cloak.

And then he ran to the Great Hall.

**M**-**-**-**M**

Lily Potter looked down at the piece of the bar, fallen on the floor. A smile appeared on her lips before she could even notice, and it felt weird on her face. There hadn't been many reasons to smile for so long. Then she concentrated, and took a deep breath.

The air, when it was expelled, did not leave the lungs of a human being, but those of a black raven. The bird flew outside the cell and landed on the floor. Once upon a time, it would have turned into a woman at the landing moment. But this was not a time when gracefulness could be seen, not from that raven. It took a few moments before Lily Potter transformed back.

It happened three weeks after Christmas, although the figure dressed in rags, who tried to mingle with the shadows didn't know that. But maybe the date had also lost its meaning for Lily Potter, had she known about that.

Still, it was almost a belated Christmas gift. Maybe for herself, maybe for Harry. It was hard to tell. All for that one bar of the cell that had - finally - given in.

Once free of the cell, she stared at the end of the corridor. Losing time was not an option - and many would argue that she had lost _all_ of the time that mattered in her life, but that was not the matter now.

Still inside Azkaban's icy walls, but somehow, warmer.

She debated whether or not to try and find James.

In the end, though, that question was stupid. Of course it was. So she followed to the right, to the opposite side of the corridor. Most of the prisoners were asleep - or in a state that was not descritible by words. You could only understand it if you had lived through that.

And Lily Potter _had_ been there. Too many times.

But what mattered was the fact that most of them would not pay attention to a woman walking through the corridors.

She stared at each prisoner, squinting to see anything in the sparse light, trying to link the faces to names, but the memories were not always there. Perhaps it was better that way. She had not - wouldn't ever - forget James' face, and that was enough.

The walk was not long, and Lily had enough sense to remember why. All Death Eaters were close to each other.

_All Death Eaters._

It was funny, in a strange, twisted way, that _she_ was there. That James was too.

She paused in the middle of the corridor, in front of the cell, and held the bars, just breathing for a few seconds. As always, she didn't know how long it had been, but the mix of longing, relief and _I miss you_ that she felt looking at his face told her that it had probably been too long.

James was huddled close to the bars of the cell. His face and clothes were dirty, and he did not have his glasses. He had his eyes closed - probably asleep. Tremors ran through his body every few seconds.

Lily looked around, at the other cells, once more. They continued asleep. She paused for a few seconds, thinking about what to do.

Being a raven was easier. She could simply go and use her beak to wake James up. Talking was not needed, not even possible.

Easy thing. Ha.

Maybe they should have died. _That_ would have been easy the thing. They had not chosen that, and never would.

So she knelt in front of James, and with a trembling arm reached through the bars to shake his body softly.

"James," she whispered, and frowned at the sound of her voice. Had she always sounded like that?

He did not move, and she shook him again.

"James," she repeated, louder. "Wake up."

He groaned and moved slightly, but his eyes remained closer.

"Damn James. Wake up."

Lily used both her arms then, and used all of her strength to shake James' body. He groaned again, when his body was pushed away, and he laid on his back. Then, he finally opened his eyes.

"Wha-"

"Shhh… It's me."

James frowned. He looked at Lily's direction, squinting.

"Who's there?" he croaked.

"Lily."

He widened his eyes and sat up. "Lily?"

"It's me," she said, and held one of his hand with hers, pressing her thumb on the back of his hand softly. "It's me."

"But…"

"Hear me, James. We are getting out of here. You will need to transform when they come to bring food. Can you do it?"

"I. I can't… not always," James replied, looking at her earnestly.

"Then you will need to do it today. I trust you."

James' averted his eyes. "A lot of good that did you, huh?"

Lily grimaced, and held his hand in a strong grip - the strongest she could, at least.

"Shut up. We'll leave this place. Today. When they come I'll distract them after they open the door. And then you run, and I'll right behind you, flying."

James nodded. "Okay. I can try that." He brought one of Lily's hands to his lips and kissed it. His lips were rough, as if he'd spent a day in a desert, without water.

A cold desert.

They remained like that for a long time. Both just enjoying the company that had been denied for so long. Until, very subtly, the cold become worse. And at the end of the corridor the foul creature advanced.

She changed back and flew away, landing in a shadowed corner. The Dementor advanced, opening cell by cell and throwing pieces of bread inside them. Every once in a while it would get in the cell, taking some time inside it. Lily understood what it was doing, but as a raven, the image of the Dementor wasn't as scary as it was for a human.

After what felt like an eternity, the creature approached James' cell, and opened it. He threw a piece of bread inside. When it saw James standing inside the cell, the Dementor entered it.

The prisoner took a deep breath, and looked at the shadowed, dark place where the raven was. Then he closed his eyes.

If Lily had been a human, she would have held her breath too.

James changed, the huge stag making the Dementor stop, hovering in the air. Then he ran past the creature, back touching its dark cloak, toward the side where Lily's cell was located. The raven flew behind him.

They ran, and ran, until they found a set of stairs. The punch of the paws hitting the steps and the furious flap of wings were the only sounds heard. Had they been in their human form, Lily and James would not have made it without pause, but as it was, they could climb down the many floors of stairs despite the exhaustion.

And once they found themselves outside, and a horde of Dementors hovered. As the animagi ran, the creatures turned to stare at them, but did not act. It was as if they were confused, unable to act.

Lily and James continued to run, and only stopped when the cold floor of the island of Azkaban ended, meeting the sea. The stag jumped on the water, and swam. The raven flew above.

For the first time in a long, long time, Lily Potter felt something blossoming inside her chest. Happiness.

**M**-**-**-**M**

Draco was staring, and making a poor job of being subtle about it. Lucius could see that, and tried to give the boy a look that told him to stop that behavior.

It was hard not to notice Lisandra Rosier, of course. In her youth she had been a woman of extreme beauty, and some of that remained, but the scars that covered nearly half of her face made it hard to actually see any beauty. Perhaps Lucius only saw that because he knew what to look for.

The scars raised above her skin, milky white and rough.

Cassiopeia focused only on her plate, rarely deviating her eyes to look at anything else.

Children.

"Septimus has just finished school, and passed all his exams with excellent marks, of course," Lisandra Rosier said, voice filled with pride. "He is going to be a healer."

Lucius nodded politely, and Narcissa smiled, looking at Lisandra, and then at Septimus.

"Congratulations," she said.

Lucius said nothing, but internally he rolled his eyes. Healer, what a lame choice. He knew that Narcissa was being truthful - as long as a young wizard or witch chose the right company and had money, she was fine with it. Even if they decided to be something as weak and mundane as a healer.

Merlin forbid Draco did something like that. Or even Cassiopeia. Although choosing the wrong profession was probably what would cause the least problems for the girl. But she was not his problem past the age of seventeen. Not that Narcissa would accept that, of course.

"And what about you two," Septimus said, making Cassiopeia look up, and Draco finally look away from Lisandra. "What are you going to do when you finish school?"

"I am going to work at the Ministry," Draco said, looking at the older boy. "Like Father."

It was an automatic response, but it made Lucius feel relieved nonetheless.

"I am sure you will be very successful in that, Draco," Lisandra said.

Cassiopeia put her fork down on the plate, and looked at Septimus, smiling.

"I am thinking of working with dragons."

"Oh," Septimus said.

That, too, was expected. Cassiopeia probably had no idea about what she wanted to do. As always, she picked the most shocking answer available. Lucius looked at Narcissa, and saw that behind the tension in her eyes there was a smile.

"Isn't that a bit dangerous? Maybe you should be thinking about a profession that would complement that of your husband," Septimus said.

Cassiopeia grimaced. "I don't want to think about that. It is stupid."

"Cassiopeia is spending too much time around that half-blood and those blood trai-"

"Draco!" Narcissa interrupted, hissing, and effectively silencing the boy.

Silence fell on the table. Lucius ate some more of the dessert and looked at the people. His wife had a slight blush on her cheeks. The children and Septimus were mostly paying attention to anything that was uninteresting - their forks, the walls, the floor. And Lisandra was staring at Cassiopeia.

Of course, the widow of Evan Rosier never let anything pass. And she could usually afford the breach of manners. At least ten years ago, she could.

"Which half-blood?" she asked.

"Harry Potter," Narcissa replied quickly, before Draco could open his mouth. "He is the son of James Potter."

"With that mudblood, you mean," Lisandra said.

Cassiopeia looked down, lips pursed.

"He is a Slytherin first year," Narcissa complemented. "Sirius Black is his godfather," when the girl looked up, she gave Cassiopeia a hard look before continuing. "He raised the boy after his parents were sent to Azkaban."

"I don't remember much of him," Lisandra said. "But I never met your whole family, did I?" she folded her napkin and put it beside her plate. "He must have done something right, if the boy did end up in a good house, after all. Can't be worse than your sister."

Narcissa simply nodded. "I don't know what Andromeda thinks of these times, and neither do I care to. But I have only one sister, and she is in prison."

His wife's smoothness was one of the reasons that their marriage had worked so well, Lucius thought. In few words she managed to convey all that was needed, without loose ends. Sometimes he even envied her unnecessity of using more… obviously convincing means. It would do Draco good to learn that from her.

"Well," Lisandra said, looking at her son. "Show the children around, Septimus. Maybe you should talk about studies."

"Yes, Mother," Septimus said, standing up. "Draco, Cassiopeia, come with me. I will show you a few books about Politics… and we can see if there is anything about dragons too."

The children followed Rosier, and Lisandra called an elf, who cleaned the table.

"There is a matter we must discuss," she said. "Let's adjourn to the office."

"Of course," Narcissa said.

The Malfoys followed Lisandra through the house. It wasn't as big or opulent as their own home. Of course, few places were. And it was not the main residence of the Rosiers, but just a place to escape the turmoil left in after the Dark Lord's disappearance in Britain.

Once in the office, Lisandra closed the doors and cast a spell that would keep any sounds made inside the room.

"Please, sit," she said.

"Shouldn't your son be here as well?" Narcissa asked.

"Oh, no. I am not displeased by his choice in not following a more… active role in the reforming of our world. I wouldn't want him in danger."

"I see."

"I have been talking with other acquaintances of Evan," Lisandra said. "Of course, since you are family I reserved the time of Christmas to invite you to my home."

Narcissa nodded. "Thank you."

"Anyway. While I do not particularly want my son close to politics, it does not mean that I have forgotten what I stand for," she paused, looking directly at Lucius. "A few other old friends told me that maybe _he_ is rising again. Do you know anything about that?"

"There is reason to believe that, yes," Lucius replied, thinking of the Dark Mark flaring in the middle of the night.

"Good," Lisandra replied. "But people in Britain have become complacent, after the Dark Lord was gone. You know people there, Lucius. Do you know anything about how the Longbottoms managed to defeat him?"

"I am not sure about it," Lucius began, "But I have come to believe that it was an… experiment, conducted by the Lord, of course. He sometimes spoke of being able to defy death. And about having become more powerful than anyone had ever imagined. I believe that he has let himself be killed, to show his power to all. The blood traitors wouldn't be capable of overpowering him."

Lisandra's eyes widened. "No one that I discussed this matter with mentioned that."

"I do not think that the Dark Lord told this to all. We had to believe in him most truthfully before seeing the act. That is how I see it."

"That makes sense. And how do you think the Dark Lord would react, should he return now, and see that nothing has been accomplished during his absence?"

"I cannot pretend to understand his mind," Lucius said. "But I believe he would understand, and see that those who stayed faithful did their best to continue the work, and to spread our influence."

"Doesn't seem like you are doing a good job, if your niece is being seen with half-bloods and blood traitors," Lisandra said, dropping any façade of politeness.

"My niece is my problem," Narcissa said. "But if you must know, Cassiopeia takes too much after Bella, and no one can tell her what to do. Most of what she does is to spite us, and comes from a sense of self importance. But in the end, when things begin to matter, I am sure of where she will stand. The girl understands values."

Narcissa's voice and words carried the impression of confidence that Lucius knew she didn't possess. Cassiopeia was a frequent matter of concern for her.

She paused, and smiled before staring at Lisandra, as if measuring her. "But I ask: what job are _you_ doing? Living here in France, pretending that problems don't exist. If I remember correctly, you never cared much about what your husband did. It took a mudblood to curse and scar you forever for you to understand reality."

For all that they said that Rosiers were family, due to Narcissa's mother, Lisandra was not one of them, not by blood. With Evan was dead, who truly mattered, in any capacity, was Septimus, and his mother would do well to remember that.

Lisandra simply ignored Narcissa's last words. "Anyway, now that we know _he_ is coming back, perhaps it is time to act," she put her arms over the desk, clasping her hands. "I live here, but Britain is my home. And I follow the news. That country has become complacent, lazy. It has let mudbloods and half-bloods take over. Some of us cannot afford to remain there without facing the post-war backslash."

Lucius could understand Lisandra's resentment. Despite everything, he, and Narcissa by extension, had never faced too much opposition. A few mouths were fed, and he was considered a respectable citizen once again. It had been easy. But the state of Wizarding Britain did disgust him.

"I have a few ideas," he said, mind going on to a diary given to him by the Dark Lord, whose eventual return would finally put things back on their correct course.

And when he did return, he would see what Lucius had done, and be proud.

"I talked to other people, and I believe that they, too, are interested in acting."

"Good," Narcissa said. "We shall do our best."

Lucius nodded. Indeed, they would.

Good times were on the horizon.

**M**-**-**-**M**

**THE POTTERS ESCAPED AZKABAN. ARE WE SAFE?**

_It has come to our knowledge that Lily and James Potter have escaped Azkaban on the last Saturday. The Ministry of Magic and the DMLE claim to not know how this flight has transpired._

_The Potters are convicted Death Eaters. James Potter has confessed to the murder of Peter Pettigrew and Remus Lupin. Both victims were James Potter's friends. Lily was a witness to both murders. It was not clear if these crimes were committed under You-Know-Who's orders. It is theorized that Lupin and Pettigrew lost their lives because they had discovered their friends' terrible actions._

_For those of you who may have forgotten, it is important to remember that James Potter comes from a pureblood family without a history of alignment with the more traditional, radical ideals. Not many Potters have been practitioners of the Dark Arts either. And Lily Potter, former Lily Evans, is a muggleborn witch. Both of them studied at Hogwarts and were in Gryffindor house. After finishing their studies, James and Lily joined a group known as the Order of the Phoenix, whose goal was to fight against You-Know-Who._

_In light of the betrayal of the Potters, it became a wide assumption that they had been spies working for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named since the beginning. Leader of the Order of the Phoenix and Hogwarts Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, has not commented the case._

_It is also rumored that the Potters had a role in the deaths of Frank and Alice Longbottom, but their trial was rushed, and the use of_ Veritaserum _was not authorized, and the confession of the other crimes sufficient to their imprisonment for life._

_Both James and Lily Potter are considered extremely dangerous, and any sighting of them should be reported to the Ministry and DMLE. The recommendation is to not approach them upon sighting, under any circumstances._

_The Minister has given permission for Dementors to approach the perimeter of Hogwarts, and to administer the Kiss if they find the Potters. That is because Lily and James Potter are the parents of Harry Potter, who is a Slytherin first year. Sources inside the school informed me that he is friends with Cassiopeia Lestrange, also a first year. The girl is daughter of Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange, also convicted Death Eaters, accused of torturing and killing wizards and muggles, among other crimes._

_The muggle authorities have been warned as well, but this serves as a reminder for those of you who have relatives in that world: instruct people you know to not approach the Potters._

_This raises the question - is Azkaban truly safe? Until now, we had reason to believe in the safety measures placed by the authorities, as no one, no matter how powerful or ingenious the criminals, had escaped the prison. I, like many of may be doing right now, ask: was this an isolated case, or are we going to witness a mass breakout of criminals such as the Potters? We can only hope that this situation is corrected as soon as possible._

Harry's heart was beating furiously by the time he lowered the paper. His food remained untouched in front of him.

The Great Hall was overtaken by voices murmuring and the rustling of paper. Most students, he noticed, were reading the Prophet too, and many of them stared at the Slytherin table, looking for Harry, and he felt his cheeks burning.

His parents were free! He could scarcely believe it.

If they could escape prison, then they weren't in a very bad condition because of the Dementors, right? He would be able to meet them.

But there were Dementors at Hogwarts, and he had not progressed in casting a _Patronus_ charm, despite many tries and a lot of study of the theory.

If he could use the _Patronus_ , he would be able to ward off the Dementors and protect his parents. And the invisibility cloak would be useful to sneak off the castle.

But first, he needed to cast the spell.

Harry glanced at the Head Table. The teachers, much like the students, were reading the Prophet. Dumbledore, though, was looking at the Slytherin direction.

"Harry!" Someone called, and he turned to look at Cassiopeia, coming toward him from the Gryffindor table. "Harry, did you see it?" She asked, waving a copy of the paper on her hand.

The murmurs doubled in intensity, Harry noticed, but ignored. Just like learning about magic, the news of his parents being free sounded unreal, but having someone seeing the same thing made everything more solid, real, and something that he could grasp.

"Your parents!" the Gryffindor girl exclaimed, and then she sat at the Slytherin table. Cassiopeia had a huge smile on her face, and her voice was high.

"I saw."

The boy didn't have many words, or a good idea about what to do next.

"They are letting Dementors here," he said, because that was the one thing that made him concerned, and that was eating away some of the joy and pride.

"Well, they won't let the Dementors inside the school. My uncle would never allow that - he is in the Board."

And Harry very much doubted that the Headmaster would. Probably not even Snape would be in favor of something like that. After all, how could he torment soulless students?

"Your parents did what no one has ever done! Servants of the Dark Lord did it!"

Harry frowned. Since having come back from the Christmas break, Cassiopeia was… off. She had taken to talking about Voldemort in every opportunity, which had even resulted in a fight with Ron. Maybe her relatives had something to do with that.

"You have to meet them, Harry!"

Yeah, that was the idea. But how would he do it? He didn't even know where to look for them. And there would be Dementors around Hogwarts.

He imagined how it would feel to be hugged by his mother and father, just like Dudley was. Harry smiled at the image. That was possible, now.

From the Gryffindor table, Ron was staring at them, and turned away when Harry looked at him. Then the Slytherin's eyes found the head table, and there it was - both Dumbledore and McGonagall talking and glancing at him a few times.

"Cassiopeia," Harry said. "I don't know how owls work. Do you?"

"You want to owl your parents," she said, nodding. "I am not sure if it is safe. Sometimes people don't send letters, if the subject is private," Harry the impression that Cassiopeia's relatives had that notion taught to her. "I think that someone could follow the owl, and take the letter."

Or, in this case, track the ones who would receive the letter.

"But what if I use Ron's owl?"

The girl snorted. "Good luck with that."

"You two are still fighting?"

Harry wasn't sure where Ron stood with him. It wasn't as if he was the one praising Voldemort every now and then.

Cassiopeia shrugged.

"Or I could talk to his brother," Harry suggested. Percy Weasley never talked the things that Ron did. It was hard to believe they had been raised together.

"That sounds better."

"I need to finish breakfast," Harry said, and sat. "Come here," he added, looking at his right side. "Just like I can eat at Gryffindor, you can sit here."

Cassiopeia sat and smiled, looking at Draco. She also waved, greeting a few first years. Most of them responded the gesture without much enthusiasm, but Harry could see that Tracey Davies and Theodore Nott smiled back at the Gryffindor.

He ate, thinking of what he was going to write in the letter.

After all, how did one approach parents that they had never met?

Gryffindor and Slytherin were opposites in everything. Including where their dormitories were located. The tower made a good counterpoint to the dungeons. Harry followed Cassiopeia up the stairs, until they reached the common room. A few Gryffindors stared, but many of them just shrugged when they saw Harry in their territory.

Maybe they just had accepted that Cassiopeia was friends with a Slytherin. Or maybe, they just didn't care about her.

After breakfast, they couldn't locate Percy Weasley, and Harry had spent all the time during History of Magic to think of the letter he would write. And he had suffered through Potions - with Snape in even a fouler mood than usual - being distracted by everything.

Needless to say, he failed the assignment.

"You stay here," Cassiopeia said, "And I will go get Percy."

"Okay."

Harry sat at one of the golden and red sofas. A few older students were playing a game - it was something that he had seen in the Slytherin common room as well, but could not recall the name.

And that was when Ron entered the common room, out of breath, and with a red face.

"What are you doing here?" the Gryffindor asked. "Where's Lestrange?"

"I want to talk to Percy, and Cassiopeia is looking for him. She knows the tower better than me."

Ron nodded. He put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Come here. I need to talk to you," he said, pushing Harry toward the door that led outside.

The Slytherin went on that direction, frowning in confusion, but not surprised.

"Look, Potter. I think you're a good guy. Despite your parents following You-Know-Who. I had a long conversation with Mom and Dad, and Bill. They think you need a good friend," he paused, and looked away. "But Lestrange is problem. Trust me."

"And why is that?"

"She's being rude to Granger. And yeah, that girl is completely mental - only Longbottom can stand her. But Lestrange called her… that word."

"I see."

"And your mum…"

"I know, Ron."

Harry gave a long sigh. He knew that would happen sometime. Cassiopeia was just like the rest of her family, and she was only tagging along Harry and Ron to annoy the Malfoys.

"I just thought you should know."

The Slytherin nodded. Yes, it was good to know that.

"And I really like that you - and her - helped me with Malfoy," Ron continued. "But I can't be friends with someone like that."

Neither could Harry. Which meant that he would need to talk with Cassiopeia, and make her understand that she couldn't go around acting as if she was his friend why belittling people like his mother.

"I will talk to her."

"Your call, mate. I owe you both for Malfoy, but there is no way I will talk to her if she continues like that. She's just like her cousin."

The boys remained in silence, until Ron frowned and asked what they wanted with Percy.

"You can't tell anyone," Harry said. "I'm going to write to my parents. But I need to use an unsuspicious owl. I don't have one, and I can't use Cassiopeia's."

Ron looked away, examining the walls.

"I can't lend you mine."

"But then don't tell your parents about Percy. Please."

Ron closed his eyes and groaned. "Ok. But Percy is going to owe me one."

As far as Harry was concerned, that was fine.

With everything settled, the boys returned to the Gryffindor common room, where Cassiopeia and Percy were waiting. Ron gave the girl a hard look and went away, climbing up the stairs that were on the right.

"What did he want?" she asked.

"He wanted to ask me something about McGonagall's assignment."

Cassiopeia made a noncommittal noise.

"What do you want, Potter?" Percy asked.

"I need your owl," Harry said, voice low.

Percy raised an eyebrow. He looked at Harry, then at Cassiopeia, and then nodded.

"Great. Thank you, Percy," Harry said.

"You just need to give the letter before next Sunday," said Weasley. "And it can't wait much for a reply."

"Fine. I'll have the letter until then."

Percy Weasley acted very much like a grown up, in Harry's opinion. He was all businesses and order. After making the deal, he had left quickly, under the excuse that he 'had something to do'.

The Slytherin wondered if he himself would be like that at fifteen. Somehow, that age seemed to be very far away, but close at the same time.

And Harry found himself alone with Cassiopeia, with nothing else to do but to talk about what she had done.

"I can help you write the letter," she said.

"I can do that myself," Harry replied. "Wouldn't want you accidentally telling me to call my mother a mudblood."

The girl took a sharp breath and then groaned. "Ron told you?"

"Yeah."

"So… are you mad at me?"

"Well, you do hate people like my mother. And before you say anything - I am not a pureblood like you, either."

"Harry, you have to understand. Granger was being obnoxious…"

Harry didn't spend a lot of time paying attention to Granger, and neither was he interested in doing that. For all he knew, the girl really was annoying. But that did not mean it was because she was a muggleborn. There were a lot of prats in Slytherin, and most of them were pureblood. Cassiopeia was being a prat too.

"And it's got nothing to do with blood."

"Harry, your mother… she isn't a mudblood."

"Oh, really?" Harry asked, voice louder attracting making a few Gryffindors turn their attention to them. "Just because she followed Voldemort?"

"Don't say his name!" Cassiopeia hissed, a grimace contorting her face.

"Why not? Are you afraid of him too?"

"It's disrespectful."

Harry rolled his eyes. Voldemort had killed and tortured people. He had caused his parents to go to prison. And the boy wouldn't respect him. Ever. And Cassiopeia shouldn't, either. Her parents, too, were in prison because of him.

"Really?" he said, and then raised his head up, and shouted, at the top of his lungs. "VOLDEMORT!"

And he repeated the name several times.

All of the Gryffindors weren't looking at them before, now they were. A few of them frightened, and others angry.

"Stop that!" Cassiopeia said.

"I'll never respect Voldemort!" Harry said, and turned away, striding away from Gryffindor tower. He bumped into Longbottom and Granger on the way. Neville scowled when he saw the Slytherin.

Harry went to the library, but he wasn't really interested in reading anything. He picked a random book and spent hours simply turning its pages.

Cassiopeia _was_ just like Draco. Like everyone else.

He didn't know how much time had passed, until someone stopped in front of him and cleaned their throat.

"Potter."

It was Granger. Harry almost scowled at her. After all, of she hadn't annoyed Cassiopeia, the problem wouldn't have happened.

But, well… Granger wasn't really the problem, and he knew that.

"What?" he asked.

"Professor McGonagall figured you would be here. And since I was coming here to study, she asked me to bring you this."

Granger put a piece of paper on the table, and slid it closer to Harry. Then she left.

Harry took the paper and read. It was a note from McGonagall, asking him to go to her office.

He gave a long sigh.

How much trouble he was in?


	7. Before the Storm

The trip to McGonagall’s office was tense for Harry. He thought of what he was going to say, without mentioning his reason for being in Gryffindor Tower, or anything related to Cassiopeia fighting with Granger and saying… that. He saw a few students on the way, and some of them whispered things as he passed.

And now he found himself sitting under the Gryffindor head of house’s stare.

“Mr. Potter, I have called you here to discuss the events that transpired in Gryffindor Tower this afternoon,” Professor McGonagall said. She was looking at Harry in a way that he couldn’t quite place.

It looked like a mix of disappointment, suspicion, and determination.

“I have talked to a few other students about what happened in Gryffindor earlier. I have heard quite many versions of what occurred, all of them very different. Some of them are obvious lies, while others are reasonable. Hence why I asked you to come here.”

Harry twisted in the seat. He didn’t know what people had told McGonagall, but given the reputation of Slytherins, their rivalry with Gryffindor, and the fact that his argument with Cassiopeia had happened in Gryffindor Tower, he figured it wouldn’t be anything good.

“So, I need you to describe what happened while you were in Gryffindor Tower, and your motivation to be there in the first place.”

The Slytherin thought for a few seconds. However, was he supposed to tell McGonagall what had happened without letting her know about the letter to his parents or about Cassiopeia calling Granger a mudblood.

“I was in Gryffindor looking for Cassiopeia. And there were a few children discussing, you know, Voldemort…” McGonagall flinched, and Harry almost rolled his eyes. That wasn’t coherent with the idea he had of her, of a fearless woman who accepted no nonsense.

Perhaps, just perhaps, fearing a name made sense, then?

Harry continued.

“And some pe- I mean, I’ve heard that some people don’t say his name because they respect him. I was just showing everyone that I’ll never respect Voldemort.” This time she concealed a flinch, but the boy still noticed how uncomfortable she was.

He looked at McGonagall’s unreadable face, hoping that the professor would buy the story.

“I see. Well, that is, in general terms, similar to what Miss Lestrange has told me.”

Harry looked up at that.

“What did she say?”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow.

“Has something happened between you and Ms. Lestrange?” she asked.

Harry shrugged. He couldn’t tell her the truth, not without admitting what Cassiopeia had done.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said, voice clipped. “I asked you a question, and I expect an answer.”

“We had a fight.”

“I see. And does that have something to do with Cassiopeia saying something bad to Hermione Granger?”

The Slytherin risked a look at the teacher. Of course, she knew about everything.

Maybe she could help him, then? Give him advice.

And, perhaps, if he kept her talking about his friendship with Cassiopeia, she wouldn’t touch the subject of his parents escaping prison.

“Sort of,” Harry replied, scratching his neck. “You know that mother is a muggleborn, right?”

“Naturally, Mr. Potter.”

Oh yeah, McGonagall had been his parents’ head of house, after all. Stupid question.

The professor did not say anything more and seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate.

“Well, I heard that she called Granger a mudblood, and I don’t like that. Cassiopeia says she’s my friend, but most purebloods hate half-bloods and muggleborns. And how can she say she likes me and say that about people like my mother?”

“Well, Mr. Potter, you can be certain that Miss Lestrange has been punished by such behavior. And I may be wrong, but that word is certainly something that she has heard at home.”

Well, she was still wrong. Harry had grown up with the Dursleys and was nothing like that.

“I grew up with terrible people, and I am not like that…”

McGonagall sighed.

“Things are more complicated than that, Potter. As I said, Miss Lestrange has already been punished by her actions, and her upbringing does not justify what she said to Miss Granger. However, her upbringing does explain that. Do you understand what I mean?”

Harry didn’t, not really. But he nodded in affirmation anyway.

“And Merlin knows that all of this is beyond strange, but you are a good influence on Miss Lestrange. Do not let this end your friendship.”

Harry scowled. So what if he was a ‘good influence’? He wanted a friend who did not think he was inferior.

“Now I want to know why you were screaming You-Know-Who’s name at the top of your lungs in Gryffindor tower.”

Well, since the professor already knew about the first part, there wasn’t a reason not to tell the truth.

“Cassiopeia said that my mother was different from other muggleborns. I asked if that was just because she was a follower of Voldemort. Then she got all mad at me because saying his name is disrespectful,” he paused. “And I will never respect him. He is dead, and it’s his fault that I grew up without my parents. And he killed people. I hate him. I was showing Cassiopeia that I’ll never respect him.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow, and she seemed to be happy if the almost smile on her face was anything to go by.

“Have you been talking to the Headmaster about You-Know-Who, Mr. Potter?”

Harry shook his head. “No, why?”

“Because besides him you are the only person who says You-Know-Who’s name.”

“Well. I don’t respect him. And I am not afraid of him either. He’s dead.”

“Not dissimilar to the Headmaster, Mr. Potter.”

Harry kind of liked the comparison. Dumbledore was, after all, considered a very powerful wizard.

“I am sure that the Headmaster will be pleased to learn that,” then she paused and gave Harry a hard look. “Not that you should make a habit out of that. If such a situation is repeated you will be punished.”

“But why?” Harry asked. “It’s not wrong!”

“First, because there are a lot of people who have terrible memories associated with that name. And second, because it gives life to an endless stream of gossip and inaccurate retelling of what occurred.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean with gossip?”

McGonagall pursed her lips. “I mean that the students are saying all sorts of things about you,” she paused. “Do not cause this sort of trouble again, Mr. Potter.”

Then the teacher opened a drawer in her desk, and took a few things from inside and put them over the desk. Harry moved on the chair to take a better look.

With everything, he had forgotten about his deal with the teacher. Since she had not been around at the end of the year, it made sense that she would provide more information about his parents now.

“These were inside your parents’ house, at Godric’s Hollow.”

McGonagall gave Harry something that looked like a folder, and when he opened it, he saw a picture of his mother holding a baby in her arms, smiling at the camera. The baby’s green eyes left no doubt about who he was, and Harry forgot how to breathe for a few seconds, staring at the picture. It was a muggle, still one. But that didn’t mean that her expression was any less contagious. He smiled too.

He looked at the next photo. A wizarding one.

This time, baby Harry was being held by his father, and his mother cast a spell that illuminated the room with a blue light. The baby laughed.

Harry found it hard to swallow, and his eyes stung. He looked away from the picture, at the walls of the office.

It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t remember those memories.

McGonagall cleared her throat, and Harry looked at her.

“I must say that these were all that remained inside their house,” and she pushed a blue wooden box toward him. “The rest was confiscated by Aurors. These remain because Sirius Black went to Godric’s Hollow and got them before anything could be done.”

“Why did he do that?” Harry asked.

“That is something that you should ask Professor Black.”

Which he wouldn’t.

Harry took the box on his hands and opened it. There was nothing inside, and for all he knew, it didn’t look like a magical object. He also doubted that the teacher would give him something that had any spell cast by his parents.

“Was there something inside it?” he asked.

“None that I know of, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said.  
That meant that perhaps he would need to talk with Professor Black. At least if he didn’t manage to contact his parents soon.

“Now we need to discuss another matter.”

The Slytherin held his breath. Did McGonagall know about the letter?

“I understand that you are very interested in knowing more about your parents, and their escape from Prison might represent - in your mind - an opportunity to gain even more information about them. But I must warn you, Harry, do not seek your parents.”

“What do you mean? I wasn’t going to.”

“Of course not, Mr. Potter. I can see in your eyes that you indeed have thought about something in that direction,” she replied, making Harry contemplate the idea that perhaps there was magic that allowed something like that. “I have worked in a school for decades, and I know that when you children have an idea, it is sometimes hard to understand why they are bad ideas. But believe me, this is something best left for the adults to deal with.”

Harry nodded, but her words were ignored after as much as reaching his ears. Of course, he wouldn’t give up on meeting his parents or talking to them.

McGonagall sighed. “This is perhaps not the best subject to discuss with you, but I am sure you have read about Azkaban, Mr. Potter. That place, it changes people. It might not be safe.”

He made his best to ignore her words now, but the idea that his parents, despite having escaped, were not sane and that they might be a danger for him was terrifying.

But no, he had seen the pictures now. His parents looked at him like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked at Dudley. That couldn’t have changed.

Or that was what he hoped for.  
%%%%%  
  
The gossip that McGonagall had mentioned turned out to be worse than Harry had expected. And kind of hilarious too.

Some people were saying that Harry went to Gryffindor Tower and tried to summon Voldemort from the dead. Another version was that Cassiopeia Lestrange had been trying to curse him and then he had said that she would not succeed because he, much like Voldemort, was Slytherin. Another, even weirder rumor was that he had pushed his sleeves up and showed a Dark Mark on his left forearm. Apparently, his parents had ‘sacrificed’ him to the dark wizard, and Harry had been a Death Eater since his first days of life.

Harry reckoned that some people actually believed those stories, and was scared of their imagination, and sanity. Four days after the event, though, the gossip was starting to die down.

He was going to Gryffindor Tower, carrying the letter to his parents. After much thinking and daydreaming, he had decided to write something simple. Almost a note, really, to let his parents know that he was looking forward to meeting them and that he did not care that they had been in prison. He brought a few books as well and would be able to say that Percy Weasley was helping him with studies if anyone suspected anything.

His trip to the tower was less calm than the last time, what with people believing he had been invoking Voldemort in their sacred golden and red territory. But at the same time, children did not bother him much.

“Harry, may I talk to you?”

He stopped and turned around. He had been distracted and did not see Cassiopeia coming. And since she probably knew what he was doing in Gryffindor, he thought that ignoring her right now was stupid. At the same time, though, she had not told McGonagall about his plan, and that had to matter something.

“Are you following me?”

“Of course not. It’s you who are in Gryffindor territory.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

“We can talk later. I have something to do.”

“Ok,” she replied, cocking her head. “But I’ll wait for you.”

That was a bad moment to have forgotten his invisibility cloak. He had avoided her for a few days, and might as well accept his fate now.

He found Percy Weasley in the common room, the boy was waiting for him as agreed. He had a few books on Magical Legislation with him, and Harry wanted to bang his head against the wall only from thinking about reading them.

There were few students there since it was still dinner time. Granger and Longbottom were studying Potions in the corner, too immersed in the books to notice anything. Harry pitied the boy. Snape hated Neville as much as he hated Harry, but at least the Slytherin boy, unlike the other, did not fear Snape.

Harry had little trouble to pass the letter to Percy and then left.

True to her word, Cassiopeia was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs that led to the tower. She was leaned against the wall, with a blank face, seeming to be bored out of her mind.

“So… you wanted to talk,” Harry said. The girl raised her eyes and stared at him.

“Yes, well, you’ve been overreacting and did not give me a chance to explain things.”

“Are you sure you want to talk here?” he asked. “It’s in the way, and everyone will see… me.”

Cassiopeia smirked. “Going away from Gryffindor Tower will not work. Everyone knows that you were trying to summon the Dark Lord that day.”

Harry laughed. “I don’t know how anyone can believe that. I am a child!”

“I told you that people will believe and say anything about us because of our parents,” she replied, shrugging, and stood up. “Let’s go to the library then.”

“Not the best place.”

“We can stay just outside it, where no one will bother with the noise.”

They walked to the library, with the silence being interrupted by a trivial conversation about classes. Harry found that it was hard to forget what Cassiopeia had done. He wondered, however, if his reaction was exaggerated. The girl had never done anything to him, personally, and he suspected that maybe he was being unfair.

Either way, he hoped to sort things out now.

Harry and Cassiopeia sat on the floor near the entry of the library.

“So, will you explain things?”

The girl nodded.

“You know that my relatives and I visited the Rosiers during Christmas, right?” she began. “They were a family that was basically ending without heirs more than fifty years ago. And… well, I can see that this won’t interest you. What matters is that Draco told Lisandra Rosier that I am being friends with the wrong people. And I guess she told my Aunt something that bothered her.”

Harry paid attention, a bit confused. Wasn’t Cassiopeia’s goal to do exactly that - bother her aunt and uncle?

“And when we came back, my aunt had a very serious talk with me. About the things I was taught, and about what my parents would think of me if they knew what I’ve been doing.”

“And?”

Cassiopeia looked away. “I don’t know, Harry. Aunt and Uncle are smart people. I am not sure if they are wrong.”

“That’s stupid.”

“And why is that?” Cassiopeia asked, voice dry.

“Well… Have you seen Crabbe, Goyle, Longbottom?” Harry asked. “They are terrible at magic. And all purebloods.”

The Gryffindor frowned, deep in thought. Harry thought that it was clear as day - there was no way that blood supremacy made sense, and Cassiopeia had to see that.

“And there are many half-bloods and muggleborns who are just as good at magic as most purebloods like you or your cousin.”

Silence reigned. Harry wondered why it was taking so long. The truth was obvious.

“But why would my aunt and uncle lie to me? Why would everyone lie?”

“Well,” Harry said quietly. “Not every pureblood is like that. Ron and his family aren’t, and he is not brilliant at school, but he is ok. He told me that one of his older brothers is going to be a curse breaker,” Harry guessed that being good at magic was necessary for that.

“You are not wrong,” Cassiopeia said after a long silence. “But why would they lie?”

Harry shrugged. He had no idea why adults did that.

“But aren’t you even a bit afraid that they - the muggleborn - will give magic to muggles?”

Not that idea again…

“If they try, someone needs to stop them. But you said that no one has ever done that.”

“It’s hard, though,” Cassiopeia bit her lip and looked down. “Look, I must confess one thing… At the beginning I was talking to you - and Ron too - because I knew that it would annoy my relatives. And embarrass Draco.”

Harry pursed his lips. “I guessed that.”

“Oh,” Cassiopeia blushed, “I thought I was being subtle.”

The boy laughed. “Well, you kind of told me that you were trying to annoy your relatives, and it wasn’t hard to guess the rest. But I also think you were not totally… fake, you know.”

Besides, Harry didn’t judge her… much. At times, he had tagged along with her because she knew more about magic and the Wizarding World.

“Well. In the end, I found out that you are not different from purebloods at all. And you told me about muggles, that they aren’t dangerous… and I am not blind. I see that some purebloods are stupid and that there are non-purebloods who are not. It’s just… hard to understand it all.”

“I think you are a good person, Cassiopeia. But you can’t go around calling people bad names if they did nothing wrong.”

“I’ll try. But I will not apologize to Granger.”

“That’s fine. I don’t care about that. If she annoys you tell her to piss off, but don’t call her a mudblood.”

“Ok then. Are we good now?”

“Yeah.”

As long as she tried not to be prejudiced, they were. But he didn’t say that.

“Excellent. I’ve been dying to ask you about the letter. Was that why you were in Gryffindor now?”

Harry nodded.

Cassiopeia smiled. “I am a bit jealous of you. My parents are still there.”

“Well, if my parents can escape, then anyone can, right?”

“I guess…”

Harry didn’t know if that would be a good thing for Cassiopeia, but he knew better than to say it aloud.  
%%%%%  
  
By March, Harry knew enough about Hogwarts and inside rivalry to think that whoever had come up with the idea of pairing Gryffindor and Slytherin in DADA class was an incredibly stupid person. Because come on, there was nothing better than two factions that mostly hated each other in the same room, when they were supposed to throw spells at each other.

Professor Black had taught them a charm that simply made colored spells be cast from their wands. According to him, it simulated quite well a few spells used in battle, without any risk of hurting the students. They were supposed to be learning how to dodge spells and cast at the same time.

And of course, nothing went according to the plan.

Harry didn’t know who began the real conflict, but he would bet it had been either Malfoy, Cassiopeia, or Granger. Longbottom was close to them as well, but he didn’t look like the type to stir up problem. Besides, Malfoy was ‘dueling’ Longbottom, while Cassiopeia’s partner was Granger.

In one second everyone was using the correct spell, everything was fine. In the next, Granger cried out and fell to the floor, holding her knee. Then it was Draco’s turn to groan. Spells that looked different from the one taught by Black left Cassiopeia’s and Longbottom’s wands. And a few seconds later Malfoy’s robe caught fire. Pansy Parkinson screamed.

Harry stopped his mock duel with Dean Thomas and saw that most of the students had done the same.

At that point, the three Gryffindors, Malfoy and Parkinson, were battling using real spells. No one was seriously hurt, yet it was clear that they were training, but trying to hurt each other.

“Stop this!” Longbottom shouted.

“It was the mudblood who started!” Malfoy replied, equally loud.

“You started this!” Granger screamed back.

Black, who was on the other side of the classroom, helping a Slytherin boy, noticed the problem. He strode away toward the confusion and then cast a spell. Harry had no idea of what spell it was, but suddenly there was a barrier between the Slytherins and Gryffindors.

“What is happening here?” Black asked.

“Malfoy hit Granger with a real spell!” Cassiopeia said. “And called her a bad name,” she added and glanced at Harry while she said that.

Ron and Granger looked at Cassiopeia as if she’d grown a third head. Longbottom, too, stared at her.

“That’s not true! They attacked us,” Parkinson said.

“You were all using spells that were not supposed to be used today,” Black replied. “I could see that.”

Black exhaled slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That will be twenty points from Slytherin and twenty from Gryffindor.”

“But they are three!” Malfoy cried. “That’s not fair!”

“That may be true,” Black said. “But I have the impression that it was one of you two, that started it.” he pointedly looked at Draco as he said that. Then Black looked at the clock on the wall. “We have only four minutes remaining, so anyone who was not in this mess is dismissed. You five, stay after.”

Most students began to leave. Harry packed his things and did the same. Instead of going to the dungeons, though, he waited out of the DADA classroom.

“Hey,” Ron said, walking past Harry. “Why are you staying here?”

Harry shrugged. “I am curious about what happened.”

“I am curious about Lestrange telling on Malfoy about… that.”

“She is trying to understand that muggleborns are not inferior,” Harry replied. Cassiopeia was just making a poor job of being discreet at that.

“Really?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded.

“You are a Slytherin who is not prejudiced like the lot of them. And, well, if Lestrange really is trying to do something… well, that’s good. And strange. You two are nothing like what I imagined that children of Death Eaters would be. It’s so confusing.”

“Good. I am just myself, you know. Harry.”

No Death Eaters’ child, no dirty half-blood. Just Harry.

It occurred only then to Harry that despite Cassiopeia and Ron having been raised in very different ways, both of them understood things based on what other people had told them. And at the same time, the two Gryffindors were also capable of noticing that reality wasn’t always like that. Even if they were slowly coming to see that.

In the end, it could be that growing up mostly alone with his relatives had given Harry an advantage.

Maybe they would all be better off learning things by seeing them, instead of simply taking someone else’s word for it.

Actually, that seemed like a good plan to follow.  
%%%%%  
  
On one side was McGonagall, Harry, Cassiopeia, and Ron. On the other, Snape and Draco. Dumbledore was in the middle.

Harry reckoned that he, Cassiopeia and Ron had been stupid. They needed to learn how to pay more attention to their surroundings and to not give in to provocation, no matter what Malfoy did.

Snape was practically shouting about ‘stupid brats who think they can do anything’, and Gryffindor this and Gryffindor that. Nevermind that Harry wasn’t even in that house - but then, again, that was something that he bet Snape wanted to forget.

In all honesty, Harry was fine with Snape berating like that. Half a year at Hogwarts told the boy that his head of house opinion of him was set in stone, much like Uncle Vernon’s. However, he did care about McGonagall’s look of disappointment. He felt as if he were small under her glare. From the way that his friends were behaving, they fared no better.

At least Dumbledore looked like he always did. It was good, someone needed to be clear-headed in the room. McGonagall and Snape took points - McGonagall from Harry and Draco, and Snape from Ron and Cassiopeia, 200 points from each house, at the end.

It looked like the possibility of either Gryffindor or Slytherin winning the cup was becoming lesser and lesser.

“Now, we already heard Mr. Malfoy’s account. Now one of you,” Dumbledore emphasized the number, “can begin to tell your version of the events.”

“Headmaster!” Snape said. “They attacked a student alone. Unprovoked.”

The Headmaster looked up from his glasses. It was obvious that he already knew that although Draco had been attacked alone, Harry as sure as hell had not been unprovoked. Dumbledore ignored Snape otherwise and turned his attention to the other side.

Harry stared at his two friends. They didn’t look much keen on talking. The Slytherin took a deep breath and began.

“We were going to the Quidditch pitch. And then Malfoy provoked us. He said that the story about my parents escaping Azkaban was a lie because a mudblood like my mother could never be able to do anything relevant. And that my parents are dead by now. And that my mother being a Death Eater was just a ruse, because she was not worthy of Voldemort.”

“Do not say his name,” Snape hissed.

“I bet you are just like all the other purebloods!” Harry said, voice loud. “You hate to see a dirty half-blood like me in your house.”

“Do not speak of things you don’t know, boy!” Snape said, pointing a finger at Harry, who felt spit land on his face. “That will cost you detentions until the end of the term,” the teacher added, almost smiling. “You may have escaped from being expelled, but you won’t get away unscathed.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “That is unnecessary, Severus. Mr. Potter will already receive detentions due to the earlier incident. We should not burden him beyond his capabilities, lest his studies suffer,” he paused, “You can always take points from Mr. Potter, of course.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. He dropped his head to try to hide it.

Snape looked at Dumbledore as if he wanted to kill him, and then he turned his eyes on Harry, and the boy knew that the man would find some way to make him suffer for that.

“Is that all that happened, Mr. Potter?” The Headmaster asked.

“No… Malfoy also said that my mother must have,” Harry paused, the memory made him feel the anger of the moment again. “He said that she must have whored herself to marry someone like my father.”

McGonagall looked scandalized for a second, then she stared at Malfoy in the same way that Snape looked at Harry. Dumbledore raised his eyebrow and then gave Draco a reproachful look. Even Snape glared at Malfoy.

Maybe calling someone a whore was worse than mudblood? Harry didn’t understand, and neither wanted to. He just needed people to stop provoking him. It was simple.

“And then what happened?” Dumbledore said.

“I…” Harry hesitated. Should he say the whole truth? Would the Headmaster know if he lied? “Well, I jumped on Malfoy and punched him.”

And the memory of the scene was an odd thing for Harry. He could still feel some of the satisfaction from hitting Draco, and even a hint of disappointment because there was no immediate sign of injury. He had never hit people in his life.

And yet, he also had never before had pictures of his parents, the knowledge that at one point they probably loved him, and someone bad-mouthing them. Besides, he had tolerated a lot of crap in Slytherin, and it was time to show that no one would say whatever they wanted to him.

Perhaps, he’d chosen a wrong way of showing that.

“I see,” Dumbledore said, and turned to Ron. “And what did you do while that happened, Mr. Weasley?”

“I was… looking away,” he replied, face turning pink.

“And for what?”

“I was trying to see if there was anyone around,” he replied slowly. “To… see if they would help Malfoy, of course.”

Harry almost laughed. That couldn’t be further from the truth, and he doubted that Dumbledore believed that even for a second.

“And you, Ms. Lestrange?”

Cassiopeia crossed her arms.

“I was just waiting for it to end.”

“Why didn’t you call for a teacher?”

“Because Dra-” she stopped mid-sentence, “Because I didn’t think of doing that.”

Dumbledore nodded.

Harry thought that the three of them should stop being so obvious. Sure, it was his own fault that he had punched Malfoy, but they needed to find other ways of dealing with him. Or resign to a life of detentions.

“Very well. Now that everyone has explained their version of the events, we can proceed to the punishment for all involved.”

“Headmaster!” Snape called, furious. “Draco was the victim, he should not suffer for what these three imbecile children did!”

“Mr. Malfoy is a victim of physical aggression, yes, but he is not innocent in the event. I am aware of your choice of vocabulary when referring to certain students, and of the general view that you express about these same people. I know that you are not the only student to share such a perspective, but I think that this is an appropriate time to deal with that. You will be serving detentions with Muggle Studies Professor Quirrell.”

“I am not going to,” Malfoy said. “My father will hear about this.”

“That your father will hear about this I have no doubt, Mr. Malfoy since I will contact him myself to discuss this entire event. In any case, disrespect toward a fellow student is punishable, so there is nothing he can do against that.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Draco said and looked at Snape as if waiting for him to do anything. But the Slytherin Head of House was silent.

“Your opinion, Mr. Malfoy. But it is happening nevertheless. You will serve detention with Professor Quirrell for a whole month, and by the end of it, I will expect you to write an essay about… Famous muggle leaders. The instructions will be given to you by Professor Quirrell. That is non-negotiable.”

Malfoy glared at Dumbledore but said nothing else.

“And as for you, Mr. Weasley and Ms. Lestrange. You will serve a week of detentions with Professor Flitwick.”

“Albus. I can supervise their detention,” Snape said, and McGonagall immediately protested.

“Neither you nor Minerva will deal with this, Severus.”

“And you, Mr. Potter, will serve a month of detentions with Professor Black.”

Harry scowled. Great. Beside him, Snape snorted, and the boy became aware of the terrible fate he had avoided. Black didn’t even come close to Snape in a competition about being terrible.

“I hope that this will teach all of you to stop this meaningless conflict,” Dumbledore said.  
%%%%%  
  
If Dumbledore’s plan was to make Harry and Professor Black grow closer during the detentions, it failed with flying marks.

There was not much dialogue, and Black had him writing lines on most nights. It was all fine with Harry. The knowledge that Malfoy was serving detentions with the Muggle Studies professor served as enough consolation. Especially because on the next day after Harry punched the boy, McGonagall had told him that their sessions to discuss his parents would be canceled until the next year, as she assumed that detentions were not that bad of a punishment for him.

Well, she was not wrong.

At least she had already given him the photo album.

Harry had not done much progress in his studies about protecting spells, but the one spell he had was holding well. He’d brought Cassiopeia and Ron to his dormitory once, under the invisibility cloak, to see if they would notice that there was something hidden, protected by the charm. They did notice, but only after paying much attention to details - something that his nosy Slytherin dorm mates would not.

He’d also taken to carrying his invisibility cloak with him all times. At least that would not get stolen in any case, in any event.

The last months at Hogwarts were much calmer than the previous ones. But the lack of reply from his parents more than made up for that as a source of anxiety. He tried to tell himself that it was all fine, that there were many reasons for their silence. Maybe they were waiting for him to go home, even.

And now he was ready to go back to the Dursleys. He would not be able to use magic, but all the free time would be put to good use. He had a few books with him and would practice the wand movements and incantations - while holding a pencil, lest he cast a spell for real and got expelled for a stupid reason.

His uncle was the one to pick him up at the station. As usual, the man was in a bad mood, complaining about wasting fuel to drive Harry home.

When they arrived, Aunt Petunia was waiting in the kitchen.

“What happened to your new clothes?” She asked.

“They were damaged in a fight. The school gave me these,” he replied, hoping that she would believe that. Actually, he had bought them via owl post, but that was something that his relatives need not know.

“Hmph. Listen here, boy. I remember that Lily could not use her freakshiness at home. And I know you will be expelled if you use it. We will not tolerate that. You will do more chores, and I won’t have you even reading about your thing.”

Harry had predicted that. He opened his trunk, took the Diary Prophet edition from inside, and put it on the table.

“My parents escaped prison. Here, you can read about it yourself,” he pushed the paper toward her. “We exchanged a few letters, but they think I should remain here for now. And they are not… right in the mind. Wizarding prison makes people go a bit crazy. This summer I want to be left alone, or else I will tell them that you are bothering me.”

Uncle Vernon turned purple, and he began to shout.

“Listen here, boy. You will do chores, and you are going back to your cupboard!”

“Vernon!” Aunt Petunia hissed. “Don’t do this. These people can be horrible - you don’t know that, you haven’t seen it. Let the boy alone. It’s better.”

Uncle Vernon actually listened to Petunia.

“Go to your room, then,” he spat, pointing the stairs.

“Stay out of our way and we’ll leave you alone. But do not get ideas,” his aunt said.

Harry complied quickly, and carried his trunk - weightless, thanks to a charm that he had learned - upstairs.

The room was the way Harry had left it, empty but for the bed and a wardrobe with a broken door. He wished he could cast a Reparo at it. Not using magic outside the school was a stupid idea in his opinion. It was as if children suddenly stopped being wizards and witches during summer. Instead of giving them useful assignments, the teachers only gave the students boring theoretical essays to be written.

And what if he needed to defend himself? Then what?

Harry knew that he would use magic in that event, even it meant being expelled. He was positive that there must exist a place where illegal wands were sold, just like there was a black market of muggle guns. If it was needed, he would go that way.

Harry hang his clothes on the wardrobe and put his trunk, with his books and the photo album beneath his bed. The cloak he kept with him.

And then he went for a walk. He put the cloak over his head, took his wand and left his room in silence.

He walked carefully, avoiding to make any noise. Aunt Petunia was in the kitchen, and Uncle Vernon was snoring in front of the telly. Since it was Saturday, Dudley probably was in the house of one of his friends. He slowly turned the key on the door and opened it just enough to pass. He hoped that no one noticed, later, that the door had been opened, or he would end up locked outside.

The streets of the Dursleys’ neighborhood were almost empty. An old woman with a dog passed by, the animal becoming agitated as it got closer to the invisible Harry. The woman pulled on his leash, and the boy used the opportunity to walk faster away. He walked for a few blocks, until he was sufficiently away from home, and near an abandoned park.

Harry took off the cloak and sat in one of the swings of the park. Its painting had decayed, and a few patches of rust covered it. He remembered wanting to come to this park when he was younger. His relatives, of course, had not taken him.

It seemed that he was fated to have everything late in his life. His parents, toys, and even friends.

He remained there, just watching the insects on the floor and in silence, wondering where his parents were at that exact moment, and what they were doing. Did they ever think of him?

That train of thought made him feel sad, and he decided to go back home.

Harry tried not to be disappointed. Maybe his parents didn’t even know where he was living…

The Dursleys’ door was locked when he arrived, and under the invisibility cloak, Harry knocked on the door and waited for Uncle Vernon to open it.

“Who’s there?” he asked, staring at the spot where the boy was, under the cloak. Uncle Vernon stepped out and looked left and right, and Harry used the opportunity to enter the house, squeezing past the man.

“Who is it, Vernon?”

“No one, Pet. Some brat that knocks on doors for nothing and runs away. I bet it is that Smith kid. If I catch him on the act…”

“Hmph. That boy is really terrible. But do not bother his parents, Vernon. I am trying to make a good impression on some people, and fighting with the neighbors won’t be of any help.”

Harry climbed the stairs and went to his room. He could hear the loud noise of the telly coming from Dudley’s room. Once, he remembered feeling a bit jealous of his cousin’s things. Now, however, he had something much better. So what if Dudley played powerful characters in his video games? Harry could be powerful, could do all sorts of things that his cousin would only do by pressing buttons and playing a game of make-believe. Or, at least, Harry would do all that one day.

Night fell on Surrey. True to Aunt Petunia’s words, Harry was left alone most of the time. He used the time to begin his Transfiguration essay but didn’t get very far before dinner time. After washing the dishes and taking a shower, exhaustion caught up with him, and he only remembered to put his books in the trunk and the wand beneath his pillow before laying down and sleeping.

And Harry Potter dreamed. Sleep lulled him into pleasant and comfortable images. His parents, his friends, and scenes of events that he thought were to come. A true home, freedom, and power. Some of those were still only birthing desires that not even he was consciously aware of.

Until he dreamed no more.

At 3:21 p.m., one of the interns who worked at the division of Detection of Underage Magic saw an alert. Magic had been used at Privet Drive Number 4, Surrey. Other subsequent alerts were received at 3:23, 3:24 and 3:26 p.m.

She made a report but did not send an internal notification for her superiors, not even bothered to check the spells that had been used.

After all, whatever child would be expelled from Hogwarts could wait until morning.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, with this chapter, we say goodbye to the first year. We will leave one other things behind as well, can you guess what?


	8. Bridges and Anchors

The first thing that Harry Potter noticed when he woke up was that he was lying on a solid, hard surface. He thought that, perhaps, he’d fallen off the bed. Sleep still made his eyes weigh too much, and he turned on his side and tried to continue sleeping. The movement caused one of his feet to touch something wet. His second perception was that it was cold. No only the floor, but the air around him was freezing.

Opening his eyes, he found himself in an unexpected place. Harry had grown accustomed to waking up in the Slytherin dormitory, surrounded by the silver and green curtains.

But he wasn’t where he should be either, and that made him stood up abruptly.

Instead of the threadbare room at the Dursleys, he was in a badly illuminated room that had the floor, walls, and ceiling made of something that looked like stone. In front of him, there were no doors or windows, and he inspected the other walls and found the same. The only thing in the walls was a pair of lit torches on opposite sides. On the floor there was water, and Harry didn’t know where it came from. A smell that reminded him of unused clothes and mold filled his nose.

Harry remained still and stroked his arms to try to get some heat. He wasn’t lying on the floor anymore, but somehow he felt even colder now.

Where the hell was he?

Something like panic started to grow inside him. He knew that feeling – it was like the time when his Uncle pretended to abandon him on the road during a family trip. His heart beat fast, his hands were cold and wet, and he felt as if the breaths he took brought no oxygen to his lungs.

How had he come here?

He approached one of the walls and touched it. Nothing happened, and he walked along it, keeping his hand on the wall, trying to feel a hidden door, or anything. When he turned around and looked at the other side, the placement of the walls made the room look like a huge circle made of stone.

It had looked like a square before, sharp angles and all. He closed his eyes and kept them so for a few seconds, eyelids contracted with so much force that his eyeballs hurt. When he opened his eyes again, the room looked like a triangle. Swallowing hard, he felt his throat dry. That couldn’t be right.

Maybe it was all a dream.

“Wake up, wake up, wake up!” he whispered.

Then he looked up, and let out a panicked, high pitched scream. The ceiling was almost touching his head, and it was moving down.

Harry threw himself on the floor, his back down. The ceiling kept moving and moving and he couldn’t control the panic anymore. He would die, pressed like the meat his aunt used to make some Italian food that Uncle Vernon adored.

It had to be a dream because the stone ceiling continued to come closer and closer.

“Wake up,” he said, louder this time. “Wake up, Harry. Come on,” even louder. “Wake up!” he shouted.

And he did.

Suddenly he wasn’t in the cold, dark room anymore. Instead, his eyes hurt under the assault of strong light. A comfortable warmth enveloped his body, and he felt the smell of vanilla and chocolate. Harry was sitting in a soft couch, his feet touching something fluff. When he looked down, he saw a white rug that seemed made of clouds.

“Harry!” someone called, and he turned around to see his mother smiling at him, holding a plate of biscuits on her hands. She wore a light blue dress and a white apron over it. Her hair was long and shiny, its waves looking like copper.

“Mom?” he said, confused, and moved to stand up, trying to reach her, but found that he could not. It felt as if he was glued to the seat.

“Harry, you cannot walk here, you know that!” His mother said, and from a pocket in her apron, she took out a wand and waved it. A table appeared in front of him, and she put the plate on it. “I’ll be right back, dear. Eat as many as you want.”

It was then that Harry noticed that his mother did not walk, but hover in the air like some weird bird. He looked around and saw that the rest of things were also suspended in the air as if held by strings.

Everything was so strange.

“What the hell…” he murmured, staring at the plate as if he waited for one of the biscuits to say something.

His hand trembled when he reached for a biscuit. It was still warm, and he was reminded of one day when Aunt Petunia let him have one of those – hidden from Uncle Vernon, of course. He put the dessert on his mouth and chewed. It tasted wonderful, something that he had never eaten before. The next biscuit, however, had no taste, and he had to spit some of it on his hand.

Frowning, Harry looked around. He was in a wide living room ended in a corridor opposite of the side he was. The walls were made of wood, and decorated with pictures of him and his parents. The most interesting fact about the ceiling and the floor was that they did not exist. The walls extended up and seemed to go on forever, and all the furniture was fluctuating in the air. Harry noticed that the rug beneath his feet covered the whole room and that it moved, and Harry could see what was underneath. He was literally on the clouds.

His mother came back floating in the air, holding a jar of milk and a cup.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Why, sweetheart, home,” she replied, frowning. “Your father will be here soon.”

“I don’t understand…”

“What is the problem, Harry?”

“I… am I dreaming?”

“Of course not, dear. Why would you say that?”

Harry hesitated. Was he dreaming? He had slept at the Dursleys and woke up in the dungeon made of stone, and he was almost dying before ending up… here.

“I was in the room with no windows, and the ceiling began to lower, and I was going to die beneath it, crushed by stone. And then I was… here. Where are the Dursleys?”

“Oh, don’t worry about them. They won’t bother us anymore,” she replied, smiling and showing too many teeth. “Milk?”

“Ah… ok,” he said automatically.

His mother smiled and poured the milk in the cup. She snapped her fingers and a chair appeared behind her, and she sat down.

Harry drank the milk, and it fell like lead on his stomach. In one second he was fine, and in the next, he felt heavy, as if his lower half was going to fall off. Shifting on the seat, he stared ahead and saw that his mother was smiling sweetly at him.

“What is happening?” he asked, the words foreign on his tongue that felt fat inside his mouth.

“Nothing wrong, Harry. Nothing wrong.”

The couch where he was sitting suddenly cracked, and he tried to hold onto it but found that a slick substance was spread everywhere he touched. The seat broke in two pieces, and Harry fell.

It might be a dream, but he didn’t think it was. Not when he was falling down and down and down. He screamed aloud and tried to use his magic to – to do anything that could help him. But nothing happened, and the floor was getting closer each second. Panic flared inside him again, and Harry tried to call for his mother. Couldn’t she come to help him?

He felt himself falling faster and faster, until his velocity stabilized, and then diminished abruptly. He felt as if inside a car that braked just before hitting someone on the street.

And he was back on a hard and cold surface. Harry was still screaming when the scenery changed to a forest, the full moon shining above it. He tried to calm himself and swallowed, feeling his throat ache. What now?

It was silent, and Harry wondered if that wasn’t odd in itself. He’d read once that in forests there were all sorts of insects that made noise. But for the plants and he, the place looked dead. His mouth tasted terrible, and he moved to stand up and spit but was stopped by shackles that bound his hands and feet to the stone.

“Be a dream. Be a dream,” Harry said through gritted teeth as he pushed on the chains, trying to free himself.

The words of Professor Black came to him then.

Some spells – be then curses, jinxes, charms – can be performed without a wand. But that is something very hard, and most of us can only manage a few of them. You will find that for now, wandless magic will feel impossible to accomplish, but as you grow up you will begin to be able to perform it. Some spells are more useful when you learn to cast them without a wand, should you ever find yourself wandless in combat…

He knew a useful spell for the situation. Alohomora. But wandless casting was practically impossible at his age. Black had only spoken about it in theory.

He heard a sound near and turned to the left and saw a man dressed in black robes and with curly, greying hair and a badly kept beard.

The man walked toward him and drew a wand. A wizard.

Harry had been kidnapped by a wizard psychopath that would kill him in some weird and horrible way. If what he was seeing was real, of course, and not another dream.

“Who are you?” Harry asked.

No reply came from the man, instead, he pointed the wand at Harry.

“What did you see?” the man asked, “Legilimens.”

And scenes that had just happened passed before the boy’s eyes. The smell of biscuits, his mother smiling, the ceiling coming down, Harry screaming, and then he was falling down, the milk and how he felt heavy… He tied to the stone now, thinking of trying wandless magic… Professor Black… Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy’s sneering face being punched…

Then he was looking at the moon again and the wizard was staring at him with a small frown as if Harry was a particularly difficult puzzle that he was trying to solve. He cocked his head to one side and suddenly his eyes widened.

“I see now,” the man said. “Interesting.”

Those words terrified Harry more than anything that had already happened today. He most definitely did not want to be considered ‘interesting’ by some psycho.

“Who are you?” Harry asked again, trying not to let the fear he felt show in his voice. “What are you doing?”

“Quiet,” the man hissed.

“I am not going to be quiet!” Harry said. “You kidnapped me. Who the fuck are you?”

The man ignored Harry, and instead pushed his sleeve up, exposing something that the boy had seen only in books. It was the signal that he knew that was on his parents’ arms, and on Lucius Malfoy’s… the Dark Mark. The man gritted his teeth as he brought the wand to touch the sign on his arm. After a few seconds, he pushed his sleeves down again and stared at Harry.

Now Harry knew that this was a Death Eater, and the notion made him feel confused. How many of them had escaped Azkaban after all? He realized that his knowledge of the first war left much to be desired, and he didn’t remember who that man could be.

But if he was a Death Eater, then… was he with his parents, somehow?

“Are you with my parents?” Harry asked. “Where are them?”

A crack sounded in the air, and a second man appeared in front of Harry. He was much younger than the first one and wore a black robe as well. He ignored the presence of the first man, and instead focused his eyes on Harry as soon as he’d apparated.

“Harry Potter,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“You shall soon learn. That matters not for now,” then he turned around to the other man. “Is everything ready, Augustus?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

My Lord.

Harry had a sick feeling in his stomach. He knew of one person who was called like that. But he was dead.

“Bring me the muggle, then.”

Augustus – now Harry knew his name, at least – disapparated, which left him alone with the second man.

“I have heard about you, Harry. A friend of a friend told me about a… friend of yours. I know a lot about you – more than you do, of course.”

Harry listened with attention.

“I know, for example, why your parents turned away from their disgusting ways. They knew that I was going to win the war,” he paused. “I can recognize intelligence. And I saw that in them. Were you a Gryffindor, I am sure you would call them cowards. But we understand each other, don’t we?”

It couldn’t be. Voldemort was dead. The Longbottoms had killed him. And what sort of madness was he talking about him and Harry understanding each other?

“But… you died!”

The man’s face contorted in a mask of anger.

“No one can kill me, foolish boy!” he said. “I have gone where no mere man could. In time you will learn to appreciate that.”

“No… that’s not true. This is a nightmare.”

The man laughed. “Wrong choice of word – this is actually a dream. I could lie, and yet I am telling the truth. For years I have wandered away, without form and substance… believed to be dead when I knew – I knew the glory of immortality. And here I am, ready to follow on. Someone such as you do not have the vision to understand it, not yet. But you should feel honored to be part of something greater than yourself. And if you don’t…”

Harry’s arms and legs moved as he tried to free himself. Dream or not, Voldemort or someone else, he wanted out of this place. Now. He swallowed hard. What if the man truly was Voldemort? How could someone not be killed? And what if Harry wasn’t dreaming?

Had he faked his death all those years ago?

“Many years ago, your parents sought me, and I accepted them. Even your mother. And you were part of my plans. Have always been.”

At that moment, the other wizard – Augustus – apparated back, carrying someone over his shoulder. Harry froze when he saw who it was.

“Dudley!” he called, but his unconscious cousin did not even move.

Augustus unceremoniously dropped Dudley on the floor, the boy’s head hitting a rock on his fall. Harry winced in involuntary sympathy.

Voldemort looked at Dudley as a human might look at an insect, and Harry thought that, for the first time, he understood how deep ran the supremacist ideology of the wizarding world.

Sure, he himself now knew that there was an intrinsic difference between wizards and muggles, but Harry did not believe that he had ever looked at someone, anyone, like that. Not even his relatives.

“Contingency, Potter. All the events happening in a way that led us… here and now.”

Voldemort – or whoever he was – liked to ramble, and Harry listened with attention, even as he tried to free himself from the chains. But his efforts were useless, and then Voldemort had a wand in his hand and cast something that made Harry’s body freeze.

From where he was lying, the boy could only follow the movement around him with his eyes. Dudley was levitated in the air, his head hanging down.

“Avada kedavra,” Voldemort said, and a green light struck Dudley on his chest.

Harry could not turn away from his cousin. There was no change in the way his body floated in the air, but there should be. It was… unfair that it did not.

A spell hit Harry, and he was thrown back in the stone dungeon, then he was back with his mother. And something that he hadn’t seen before was played before his eyes…

Harry was braced against someone, and they were running. He could see the trees moving fast as he looked at them, and beside him was his mother. Behind them, there was a group of wizards and witches casting spells.

“Come on, Lily. We’re almost there,” someone said, and Harry could feel vibrations on his body.

Then someone screamed, and Harry was back in the forest, the moon mocking him above.

Something floated in the air. It had a dark purple, almost black in color. It looked like a spell – but somehow, he knew it wasn’t one. Beside him, Voldemort said a word in a language that Harry did not recognize – it could have been Latin, but he wasn’t sure. Augustus was leaning against a tree, watching everything with widened eyes.

The no-spell suddenly disappeared in plain air, at the same time that Harry felt a strange sensation. He would not be able to describe it with words, not precisely, at least. But he knew that there was something wrong with him. Something that should not be.

He frowned. This was it. It was now that the dream had to end.

“Wake up. Wake up. Please. Come on, Harry, Wake up.”

He closed his eyes, willing himself to wake up – maybe in another dream – anywhere that wasn’t that place… but when he reopened them, everything was the same.

“What did you do to me?” Harry asked, voice loud. “What was it?”

Voldemort ignored him and nodded at Augustus, who approached them, wand in hand. He pointed at Harry and made an intricate movement, and said an incantation. The boy began to feel tired, so tired, and fell asleep.   
%%%%%%  
Harry bolted up on his bed. The movement made his head explode in pain, and he groaned, closing his eyes. He remained immobile for long minutes, and the pain receded, becoming only a dull ache near his neck.

He looked at the clock and frowned.

4:32 a.m.

The scenes from his nightmare came back to him and he lied down again, staring at the ceiling.

He was not prone to nightmares, much less something as weird as the one he had just experienced. The dream had scared him – and even now, as he lay awake, it still made him feel something odd. Harry was afraid of going back to sleep and dreaming again.

So Harry just stayed there, until the first rays of light passed through the holes in the window – he would need to find a way to convince his aunt to install a curtain in his room.

Until the door of his room was opened, an unknown man coming in.

Harry moved fast, hand going to the wand beneath his pillow.

“Expelliarmus!” the man shouted, and Harry’s wand flew to his hand.

“What?” Harry asked. “Who are you?”

The man stared at Harry with narrowed eyes.

“Mr. Potter, I need you to come with me,” he said, voice calm, mechanic.

“Why?”

“All will be explained to you in due time. I am Auror Smith, and there has been a report of 8underage magic usage here. We are… investig–”

“I did not use magic!” Harry protested. “I can’t be expelled!”

Smith gave Harry an odd look and a nod. “I don’t believe you did. As I was going to say, we are investigating what happened here. But for now, you must come with me. Your wand will be returned to you when everything is cleared.”

Who were ‘we’? Harry almost groaned at the idea that there were more wizards in the house. He wouldn’t hear the end of it from his relatives. At the same time, the idea of many wizards in Privet Drive made Harry want to laugh. He just didn’t want to end up homeless because of that, if Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon decided that it was the last freak straw.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked, still sitting. “Are you really an Auror?”

And the most important question, the one that remained unasked – was this still a dream?

“Your Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore is coming here,” the Auror replied. “We can wait for him if you want to. But we must remain here.”

Harry had the feeling that there was something that the Auror was not telling him. But he doubted that asking would make a difference.

“Does he believe that I did not use magic?” Harry asked.

“Probably.”

Harry nodded. He hoped so.

“My relatives did not say anything er… rude to you?”

“No, Mr. Potter,” Smith replied. “Why?”

Harry shrugged. “They aren’t really fans of magic. I can’t imagine that many wizards here would make them happy.”

Smith took a notebook – a muggle looking one – from his pocket and wrote something on it. When he looked at Harry again, he seemed different. Determined, perhaps.

“We are… investigating some things, Mr. Potter. Can you tell me more about your relationship with your relatives – do you get along well?”

“Well, they don’t like magic. We are not really close, you know. We just try to stay out of each others’ ways.”

“I see,” Smith said and wrote something on the notebook. “Did they ever do something to you because of magic?”

“No. Dudley was the one who used to annoy me at school, before Hogwarts. But I can run faster than him.”

And now Harry planned to use his parents as a threat against his cousin, and his own magic.

“Dudley?” the Auror asked.

“Yeah. My cousin.”

“Does he live here?”

“Yes.”

“And when did you see him last?”

The dream, with a wizard that proclaimed to be Voldemort hitting Dudley with a Killing Curse, came to Harry’s mind, and he repressed a shudder.

“Last night, after dinner, I guess.”

“And he slept here?”

“Yes. Why are you asking me these things? What my relatives have to do with underage magic?”

No answer. Harry snorted and crossed his arms. If the Auror was not going to tell him anything, then the boy would stay in silence.

“Did you hear any noise at night?”

Harry simply stared at the man and did not reply.

“Mr. Potter, I suggest that you reply to my questions. Believe me, doing so is your best interest.”

Could he be expelled if he did not reply? In doubt, he thought it was better to simply go with it.

“No,” he replied with a sigh.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were already awake when I entered the room. When did you wake up?”

“I am not sure, around 4:30, I guess.”

There was a knock on the door, and Smith opened it.

“Ah, Auror Smith, I believe?” Said the voice that Harry recognized as Dumbledore’s.

“Yes, Sir.”

“I am here to help with the investigation, but before, I’d like to see Mr. Potter.”

“Of course,” Smith said, and left the room.

“Good morning, Harry,” Dumbledore said and entered the room. For once, he was not wearing colorful clothes, and he had no smile on his face.

“Good morning,” the boy replied. “Professor,” he said, voice urgent. “I did not use magic, you have to believe me! I can’t be expelled.”

“I trust you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry breathed, those words making him feel calmer. If Dumbledore believed him, then he wouldn’t be expelled, right? His word was law at Hogwarts.

“Harry, how much did Auror Smith tell you?”

“He only told me that someone used magic here and that I could be expelled. Then he made some weird questions about my relatives…”

Dumbledore nodded.

“Is there a problem, Sir? Besides the underage magic thing, I mean.”

“Something has happened, yes. We are sorting that out. Harry, you will need to get your things and come with me.”

Harry frowned. “But why? I really didn’t use magic – you said you believed me!”

“I do,” Dumbledore said. “And once we are out of here, I can explain the entire situation to you, but we truly must leave.”

“But… I–where will we go?”

“The house of a friend of mine who has agreed to help you.”

Harry was not in need of help – was he? He felt indignation blossoming inside his chest. Stupid adults who wouldn’t ever tell him anything, and instead acted all mysterious. But he did not protest. Maybe underage magic was even more serious than causing one to be expelled from Hogwarts. He pulled his trunk from beneath his bed and stuffed his clothes inside it.

“I am ready to go.”

He followed Dumbledore down the stairs, and out of the house. His relatives were nowhere to be seen The Headmaster levitated the trunk for him, and they walked towards the same direction that McGonagall did once, and Harry felt unease at the idea of apparating.   
%%%%%%  
Harry had never been in a wizarding home, and he found that it didn’t look as much magical as it looked old fashioned. There was a moving portrait of an old lady in one of the walls. Her mouth moved, and her expression seemed angry, but no sound came out, which made the painting look creepy. Aside from that, the only other thing that made the place different from a muggle house was the house-elf. A strange little creature that muttered about an ‘unworthy master’ and ‘filthy in the noble home’.

Harry didn’t know other house-elves. He had read about them, of course, but he had never interacted with one.

The elf stared at Harry with huge accusing eyes, as if he himself was some pile of dust dirtying the floor, and he had a sudden thought that maybe this was the home of one of those pureblood posh people. But he found it unlikely that Dumbledore would bring him to such a place.

He decided to simply remain sitting in an arm couch, without exploring anything. The answers he wanted were not inside the house. Probably.

And he still did not know what the hell was happening. The Headmaster had disappeared behind a door, leaving Harry alone. He was pretty sure that Dumbledore was talking to someone, but when he tried to listen to anything, no sound of voices reached his ears. Perhaps it was due to the thick walls, or maybe the older wizard – or whoever was with him – had used magic to keep Harry from listening in.

The absence of his wand made Harry feel anxious. He would be at the mercy of any wizard or witch who walked on him. The boy hoped that the issue would be solved soon.

Some time passed, and Dumbledore was back, looking even more tired than before.

“Harry, now we can talk. I will explain the whole situation to you,” he said and sat in a chair in front of Harry.

“Alright.”

“As you have noticed, something has happened, besides the use of magic inside your home. Now understand – the Ministry knows which spells are used in a particular region, but not necessarily who cast them. Since magic was used inside the house where you live, it was recorded as if you did it.”

Harry felt his eyes widening.

“Someone was inside the house?” He asked, barely restraining a shout.

“Indeed, Mr. Potter. The spells were cast in the middle of the night, but the register was not inspected until this morning. Had you used magic, your expulsion of Hogwarts would already be in course. But the spells that were used cannot be cast by children – much less a first year. That’s how we know that you did not use magic. The second evidence that you are innocent is that there is a way to know which was the last spell cast from a wand. That was used on yours, to prove that no underage magic was used. Your wand will be returned shortly.”

The Slytherin exhaled, relieved. It seemed like no bigger trouble would come from this. Still, Dumbledore seemed to be incredibly worried about something, and Harry still couldn’t understand why he wasn’t at the Dursleys.

“Now, Harry, I must warn you. The news I have for you are quite grim, and though I wish it were different, there is no way around it.”

“But… you said that I won’t be expelled.”

Dumbledore shook his head and raised a hand.

“There are other things that I will explain. As I told you, someone entered your relatives’ house and cast the killing curse on your Aunt and Uncle. And your cousin is missing.”

“What?”

“The Ministry has launched an investigation to find out who has done it, rest assured. And we are looking for your cousin.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. Why would someone kill his Aunt and Uncle – and a wizard or witch at that. And Dudley missing… it made no sense. Suddenly, the walls were met by his eyes with suspicion. He remembered dreaming, one dream inside another, the oddest thing he’d ever lived.

It was a possibility that he was still sleeping.

“And given the circumstances, your parents are the prime suspects.”

“Why? They did nothing!”

“As I told you, Mr. Potter, an investigation is being conducted.”

There and then, Harry decided to tell about his dreams. Maybe, just maybe, not everything had been a dream.

It was maddening, to not know if he was living everything or not.

But when Harry opened his mouth to speak, he found that the words disappeared from his mind. He didn’t even know what he wanted to tell Dumbledore just a second ago.

“Are you feeling well?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry shook his head.

“I understand that these are shocking news. And that you must be feeling the loss…”

Dumbledore continued to talk, but Harry couldn’t follow the words over the roar in his ears. Sure, it was shocking that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were dead, and Dudley missing. But if this – now – was reality, there was something very wrong happening to him. His relatives had not been much more than the people who reluctantly fed and clothed him. Love was not something that existed at either end of their relationship. Shocking, yes. Sad? Unlikely.

But someone had messed up with his mind. Someone who was probably Voldemort, who was not dead at all. And Harry felt like a sitting duck at the mercy of someone who had the means to get inside his mind and change things.

Harry shuddered.

He tried to tell Dumbledore about the dream again. The Headmaster was smart, he would know that the nightmare was related to what happened at the house.

But his attempt yielded the same result.

“Harry… I need you to focus on me. Someone more prepared will come to talk to you about this, but you need to be aware of the new arrangements.”

Blinking, he was back, listening to the Headmaster.

“Since your relatives have died, you have to be placed in a new home. Your temporary – and likely permanent – new home is here. This is the house of your godfather, Sirius Black. He has agreed to take you in.”

“I–” Harry began to protest but stopped himself. The memory of Cassiopeia talking about the books that remained inside the Black residence – the place where their DADA teacher lived. Books about many areas of magic, some of them outlawed nowadays, and the girl said that her aunt wasn’t even sure if they still existed. Maybe he could use the opportunity. Maybe something useful would come out of this, after all.

If this was not a dream, then he would need to understand what was happening to him now.

Swallowing the word of protest, Harry simply nodded.

“That is all for now. I am very sorry for everything, Harry. I guarantee that your relatives’ murderer will be found, as will your cousin.”

Harry wanted to snort. He knew that Dudley would not be found. No, the boy was dead just like his parents.

But that was not something that he could tell.  
%%%%%%  
Summer was far from what Harry had planned. Instead of spending his time simply studying and practicing spells, he had to use a lot of his time trying to find any lead about why he couldn’t tell anyone – be it by speaking or writing – about what had happened. By now he was sure that it had not been a dream.

For some purpose, someone who claimed to be Voldemort had kidnapped him, killed his relatives, and done something to Harry. Not only to his memory, no. As the shock passed, that other odd, wrong, sensation returned, and he was constantly aware of it. Someone who was called Augustus had helped ‘Voldemort’ as well.

He passed most of the time in the small library. Cassiopeia had definitely exaggerated about its size, it was far from huge, but it still had a considerable number of books – that had been mostly useless until then.

Sirius Black was a decent person to live with, which meant that he did not speak much, and neither tried to spend time with his godson. Harry figured that the man probably thought that he was grieving the death of the Dursleys or something. They just had meals together. Dumbledore visited a few times as well, but he didn’t push Harry into talking either.

Some counselor from the Ministry also came, but Harry refused to be waste his time speaking about his relatives’ deaths.

In the end, he spent most of the time alone, and no one bothered him about the sort of reading choice he made – the only one who knew about it was the elf, but he seemed glad to hide things from Sirius.

He had not learned about what could be causing his – for lack of a better word – block to talk about the events of that fateful night.

But he had learned about other things.

Such as the story of a dark wizard who claimed to have found a way to live forever. The legend did not detail how he had done it, and of course, it could be just a legend… But it could real. And that meant that maybe Voldemort really was back.

His parents still did not reply to his letter, and Harry found himself giving up hope. Maybe they were far away and had burned his letter.

No one sent him an owl, for that matter. He’d expected Ron to face problems with that – exchanging letters with a Slytherin was probably a taboo in his home. But it bothered him that Cassiopeia remained in silence too. Maybe her aunt had succeeded in brainwashing her, after all.

Maybe it was better this way. What had happened was something better-explained face to face. Maybe he could make someone understand that something was wrong.

All that he knew was that the next year at Hogwarts would be better used. Harry would learn everything he could and use that to free himself from the damned block. And he would find out if Voldemort could be back. No more wasting time with stupid people like Draco Malfoy. No more studying only because of his deal with McGonagall.

Knowledge, quite literally, was power when it came to magic. And he intended to never again be clueless and powerless again.

%%%%%%

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next chapter. Will this new resolve of Harry last, even under the pressure of a new threat and another bunch of crazy rumors?


	9. Seeds

Being back at Hogwarts was enough to inspire both annoyance and hope in Harry Potter.

The first feeling was due to rumors and insinuations written in the Daily Prophet. Apparently, his parents had murdered the Dursleys in cold blood, and kidnapped Dudley, in the middle of the night - what they did to him was anyone’s guess.

And the worst thing about it all was that the story sold in the papers made sense. Why else would his relatives be killed right after James and Lily Potter left prison, while Harry had been left unscathed? More than that - who else would want to kill them?

Harry could see that everyone around him believed in that story, and he couldn’t blame them. If it had happened to someone else, he would have believed in what was written in the papers.

Maybe it was a good thing to not be able to say anything. Harry remembered how he had wanted to tell Dumbledore about what happened, how he had tried to do that, in the moment that he realized that not everything had been a dream. At least, for now, he wasn’t considered crazy, and he wasn't sure that the Headmaster would have believed him.

Sure, a few students were saying that Harry himself knew what had happened, and that he was hiding Dudley’s and his parents’ whereabouts. But no one with sufficient sense of reality believed that. Still, he was receiving a few odd looks from people. A Slytherin girl in his year, Tracey Davis, decided to be short with him, out of the blue, and even refused to pair up with him in Charms. Maybe it wasn't cool to have a housemate whose parents killed muggles, when one was a half-blood, like Davis.

However justified the sentiment, Harry wasn't the one to blame.

And the rest of his house began to just plainly ignore Harry. The whispers and badly concealed laughs when he passed had been reduced.

It was a foreign notion, that people would be impressed - or something like that - by his parents killing people. Maybe it had something to do with James and Lily being "true" followers of Voldemort, like Draco Malfoy had implied when they first met.

It was as if Harry were a constant reflection of whoever his parents were, and whatever they'd done. Frustrating at best, and infuriating at worst.

But if things at Hogwarts left him feeling confused, and sometimes annoyed, it was also there that he could look for clues about what Voldemort had done to him, after not much success with Sirius Black's books. So far, no further progress had been made, though. Not knowing where to begin his research, Harry decided to stick to reading about immortality. There weren’t many books on that in the library - not even in the Restricted Section. There were a few stories about people who wanted to live forever, and most of them ended in tragedy. They didn’t help a lot, since many seemed to be fruits of imaginations and rumors. 

He’d thought about asking McGonagall about immortality during their first talk of the year, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do - ask someone who knew more things than Harry could even begin to imagine. But the summer events helped him to hold his tongue. Sometimes it was better if he kept things to himself, forced or not. Whatever had been done to him, he would treat it as a blessing in disguise. 

The words seemed to blur around the edges of the page of the book that Harry was reading, and he gave a slight snort. The tales about a man who could hide from death certainly did not look like proper studying, and he longed to leave that and go to bed, but had convinced himself of at least finishing one more story, maybe that would be the one to give him a clue.

“A sickle for your thoughts,” someone said, at the same time that a figure appeared from the side of his vision and sat on the chair in front of him. Cassiopeia, of course, which meant that Ron might or might not be near as well.

If it were possible, Harry would pay a large sum of galleons to be able to express his thoughts. He couldn’t say that to Cassiopeia, and it felt like the more the days passed, the more anxious he got about it.

“Come on, Harry. Black must not be so bad – he’s got to be better than the muggles. At least there’s that.”

The girl was staring at him, her black eyes narrowed, and Harry wished that someone would suddenly understand what he was going through – anyone. He wished that Cassiopeia could somehow see what he was thinking.

“And you’ve been studying so much now – is it Black? Does he demand top marks of you?”

“No.”

“Humph. People are saying that he stopped being a teacher because you are living with him. I mean – that’s silly, right? No teacher at Hogwarts ever stays for more than a year. It’s like the position is cursed – or that’s what I heard, and believe me, it is something that makes sense. Black would have stopped being the Defense teacher anyway. At least this way he didn’t die – that has happened in the past, did you know?”

Cursed? Why would anyone curse a teaching position?

Maybe  _ Harry _ was cursed, and anyone who took him in their home would die. But that seemed like a silly idea, product of what seemed like an endless stream of confusion that was - maybe justly - turning into paranoia.

Why did his parents become Death Eaters? Why wouldn’t they reply to his letter?

Why would Voldemort kill his relatives, kidnap Harry, and then let him live?

Who was Augustus - and what was his last name?

“A few other Gryffindors and I are going to watch the Slytherin against Gryffindor match on Saturday. Are you coming with us?”

“I am not sure. I have stuff to read.”

When Harry looked up, Cassiopeia was frowning. “Leave these books alone for once. I barely see you out of the library anymore. You are acting like some boring Ravenclaw.”

Harry closed the book and looked at the girl. “You know that I think that the houses are a load of bullshit. But if you must follow that idea… well, people always say how Slytherins want power. What I know is that I won’t be helpless again. And this,” he pointed at the book, “is what will teach me that. So no, I am not studying because of Black or anyone else, but to learn how to be someone whom people don’t mess with.”

Actually, he was studying because of someone else, to become someone who Voldemort wouldn’t dare face again, no matter how distant or ludicrous that idea sounded even to himself.

“What are you talking about?” Cassiopeia said. “When were you helpless? I can help you.”

Groaning, Harry pressed his hands against his eyes.

If she knew what the problem was, she wouldn't say that.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault that he couldn’t explain things, and that frustration was eating at him. Well, it was Voldemort’s fault, but that was something for later.

Perhaps watching the Quidditch match would be a good thing, if only to distract him from his unsuccessful research about immortality.

“I will go to the match,” he said. “But I will stay on the Slytherin side,” he added, as the first sprouts of an idea began to form.

“Great,” she said, and then frowned, shaking her head. “Wait, what? Are you finally developing some house loyalty? Should I be worried?”

Harry shrugged. Maybe he should spend more time around Slytherins – not as a friend, but just being there near them would allow him to listen to things. Among other things, perhaps discover who the hell was Augustus. Some Death Eaters had children - he suspected that Cassiopeia, Malfoy and himself were not the only ones who had Voldemort's marked followers as parents - and maybe Augustus' son or daughter was at Hogwarts, which could lead him to the identity of the man himself. He would gain nothing from simply clashing with the other Slytherins, and maybe using the story of his parents murdering muggles would give him good results. 

“I want to do this… thing,” he said, carefully not thinking of Voldemort and the summer, lest the magic held his words back, just like it had done when he spoke to Dumbledore.

“Humph. Be mysterious all you want then,” she said, and looked at the pile of books over the table. “What are you reading? Most of what you’ve been studying doesn’t look like schoolwork.”

“Like I said, I am trying to learn all magic I can now.”

“I see. Good luck with that impossible task. How did you even manage to get a pass for the restricted section?” she asked, a pointed look at the book cover.

“I asked Lockhart. I told him that I am researching about Dementors – that I am afraid of them. It was easy.”

“At least someone is learning something with that joke of a teacher. I complained about Black, sure, and he was bound to leave after a year, but really, Lockhart? I’d rather Filch was teaching – and he is a Squib!”

Harry shrugged. He couldn’t deny that Lockhart was a joke, and that he did not understand the purpose of his presence at Hogwarts. But a bad teacher seemed like a small thing, compared to knowing that Voldemort was alive somewhere, and that his follower, Augustus had made Harry half a prisoner in his own mind and words.

“At least there will be duelling practice, or that’s what I heard,” he said, and tried not to be too hopeful. Sure, it was a cool idea, but he didn't put much stock into Lockhart's ability to organize anything other than a mirror staring session. “And why do you think that the Defense teachers are cursed?” he asked, bringing the subject back, because for some reason that appeared to matter.

“It’s not that the  _ teachers _ are cursed. But, you know, since a few decades ago, every teacher leaves after teaching DADA for one year. Some of them died, some mysteriously received great job opportunities somewhere else. One of them was selling hallucinogenic potions that his wife brewed, and then he was arrested. What is important is that from a few years ago – I am not sure how many –  until now, no DADA teacher lasts more than a year.”

“That’s odd.”

Sometimes his muggle upbringing was still apparent, at least to Harry himself. Every day he learned that this and that thing were true, at least in the Wizarding World. He could admit that every teacher leaving after one year looked just what he’d said - odd.

The vague impression of importance that was on the back of his mind made itself apparent, then. He most definitely did not know how curses like that worked. But, could it be that what had happened to the Dursleys was simply a way to lead him to Black’s custody, who would in turn leave the Defense position, and thus fulfill whatever curse it was?

It seemed like a terrible idea. Otherwise, people would go left and right cursing stuff, and the world would be drowned in a sea of things happening because someone said so. That meant that curses like that were difficult, unknown or forbidden, maybe all of those.

So, he couldn’t discard that idea, and it was shuffled into the “crazy explanations” mental list.

“Of course it is odd, that’s my point. But we just need to live through seven teachers and hope that they are decent. We’ll just tolerate Lockhart for one year, and then he’ll be gone.”

Harry nodded, trying to forget whatever cursed teachers had to do with him.

“I think, then, that we should find a way to make Snape the Defense teacher,” he said. Now that was a good way to use a curse, if it really existed.

“It’s not a bad idea,” she agreed, smiling. “You said you were studying, but it seems more like you are reading tales,” Cassiopeia pointed at the book. “I do like The Tale of the Three Brothers, though. It’s a good story if you want to know more about wizarding culture.”

“This actually is studying, Cassiopeia.”

The girl stared at him for a long moment, until she widened her eyes and shook her head, disagreeing with something that had not been said.

“Harry, are you interested in talking to the dead? Or resurrecting the dead - or anything to do with the dead in general? That could be very dangerous.”

“No.”

“Then how is reading about the Deathly Hallows studying?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s for that thing that I am doing.”

“I see. Are you sad about your relatives? I thought you didn’t get along well with them - and, they were muggles. But, if you are thinking about bringing them back, or anything like that… I don’t think you should continue to do that,”

Harry remembered Dudley, then. How scared he had been, and how Voldemort had ended his life in a mere second, as if he had the right to go and kill people left and right.

“Muggles or not, it was a shock. I… I didn't exactly like their deaths," Harry said, standing up and picking up the books quickly and with more noise than necessary.

Cassiopeia frowned. “Why are you defending them? It’s not like they treated you well,” she said, face twisting in an angry grimace.

It confused Harry that he felt no love for his relatives, and yet could feel shock - no, more than shock, indignation - at their deaths.

He strode among the shelves and placed the books back on their places. The Gryffindor followed his every step.

“I don’t think they should have died. Maybe a bit tormented, yes. I would have liked to see fear in Uncle Vernon's and Aunt Petunia’s eyes, I would have even wanted to cause it," he said, remembering how afraid Aunt Petunia had been afraid after knowing that his parents escaped Azkaban. "But I would never kill them, or even harm them seriously. What they did to me was awful, but not monstrous enough to justify killing them,” he replied quietly, thankful that it was almost curfew, and the library was almost deserted. “I don’t want to live with muggles, because magic is I want in my life. But that’s all,” he added.

In a way, their deaths was regretful  _ because _ they wouldn’t get to see Harry in the future, because they wouldn’t have to admit how wrong about him they had been. Because magic could be not normal for them, but it was better than anything they would ever had.

They left the library in silence. Cassiopeia seemed to be concentrating on something very difficult, with distant eyed and a permanent frown on her face.

“You are a good person, Harry,” she said, mirroring his own words from last year, although her tone showed that maybe she wasn't sure of what she was saying. “And stranger than the rest of the people I know. It’s strange, but I think that what you say makes sense,” and then she looked at her wristwatch and pursed her lips. “It’s almost curfew, so I will see you tomorrow in Potions. Bye.”

“Bye,” he replied, waving.

Cassiopeia followed the path that would lead to the tower, while he headed to the dungeons. Harry still had more than twenty minutes, so he just walked slowly, thinking about everything that had happened, the things he’d read, and Cassiopeia’s strange words.

Was he a good person, simply because he didn’t particularly like that his relatives had died? 

He liked to think that he was a decent kid, despite everything that his relatives themselves had told him. Dumbledore and McGonagall didn’t look like the type of people that would tolerate someone being less than that, and they seemed to like him.

Still, he longed to know his parents - and considering everything, they probably wouldn’t be in the “good” category. It made him feel a bit of guilt, right then. But simply rejecting his parents, who gave him life, simply because of their crimes looked like something bad on Harry’s book.

Besides, he reminded himself that Voldemort was the one to blame.

Harry was distracted from his wonderings when he heard a whisper.

“... _ I am so hungry… _ ”

Harry looked around, trying to see who had said that, but there was no one.

“... _ so long _ …” came the whisper again. The voice sounded like a hiss, the tone desperate and angry.

“Who is there?” Harry asked. He was near the Slytherin dungeons now, and maybe it was one of his housemates who was trying to trick him. “It’s not funny. I am not afraid of you!” he said.

“ _... So hungry _ …” the sound seemed to come off the walls, and he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. Harry decided to walk faster, while telling himself that he didn’t feel fear - whether it was a stupid Slytherin trying to provoke him, or something else.

When he arrived at the common room, Harry stared at everyone who was there, trying to guess if one of them was responsible for the voices. They just looked back at him, and then went back to whatever they had been doing.

There was, of course, one Slytherin who was not in the common room. Draco Malfoy. Harry went to the dormitory, but Malfoy wasn’t there either. In fact, he arrived only after a few minutes.

“What are you looking at, Potter?”

“Nothing, Malfoy. I am just thinking that you almost lost curfew.”

“That’s not your business.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“What? Of course I’m right, Potter. Have you hit your head? Did you drink from a cursed teapot at Sirius Black’s house during summer?”

Harry shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and did not reply.

Maybe he had not heard anything at all, and it had been only an impression. Maybe he was hungry, and those had been his thoughts, not whispers.

But maybe it  _ had _ been Malfoy, or he knew who had done it.

Whatever it was, he would find a way of ending it, fast.

* * *

 

When days went by without a return of the whispers, Harry decided that he had either been too tired at that moment, and nothing had happened, or that whoever had been trying to scare him gave up. When reading about immortality gave no results, he switched to books about memory and memory altering charms.

At least now he had a clue about what he was dealing with, but despite finding more source material, the texts were by no means abundant. Besides, texts detailing those practices probably were not in the Hogwarts Library - Restricted Section or not.

But one thing he knew - Voldemort did not use a common memory charm, the  _ Obliviate _ , on him. The memories were there, and he could remember them in detail. But it was like they were trapped in a sealed box.

And why did Voldemort let him remember all those things? Wouldn’t it be better if Harry had no idea of what had happened?

Maybe the dark wizard didn’t need that, which was all the more terrifying.

And that, among all the other things that already pressured Harry to explore magic on his own, led him to focus his attention on learning Defense. Whatever had been done to his head was already done. His efforts would be better focused on preventing something similar from happening again.

That was why Cassiopeia, Ron and Harry found themselves in what seemed to be an abandoned bathroom on the second floor. An annoying ghost inhabited the place, but Ron had made it shut up.

"I can't believe you actually dragged me into this," Cassiopeia said. "Training in the bathroom."

"It's either this or depend on Lockhart. I am sure that when you find yourself bound and helpless knowing about Gilderoy Lockhart's adventures will be of much use."

"I don't think anyone here plans to end up bound and helpless," Ron said, giving Harry a strange look. 

"I certainly don't," Cassiopeia said.

Neither did Harry, but it was a bit too late for that now.

"Fine. But at least remember that there will be a duelling club soon. I want to win it, imagine being able to defeat everyone else..."

"Now that seems a good reason," the girl said.

"But you can't beat the older students," Ron protested.

Harry couldn't argue with that. He still did not know enough magic to defeat a lot of the students who were in upper years. But he would need to, one day, be able to. If Voldemort ever appeared in the middle of the night again, Harry would need to be able to, at the very least, flee. 

Ron shrugged. "How are we going to do this, then?"

"I haven't planned everything yet. I was thinking of continuing the thing that Black taught us last year, using the fake spell. And maybe we could learn about casting shields. And the  _ Patronus _ ," he added the last part after a pause, remembering his still meagre progress with the charm.

"This seems… a lot to learn," Cassiopeia said. "But I think there's nothing bad in that."

Harry shrugged. "If we start now, we'll be better than the rest of the school, one day," he then walked away from the other two. "I thought that we should start by practicing two against one, with the fake spells. Each of us can count how many times a spell hit us."

"I don't know…" Ron said. "In combat, simply being hit with a spell could kill us, so I guess that we should change places whenever a spell hits us," then he drew his wand and cast the spell against Harry.

"Hey, that isn't fair!" the Slytherin exclaimed.

"Among the three of us, I am the one who is better at fighting outnumbered."

"Why is that?" Cassiopeia asked, crossing her arms.

"Because I have fought against Fred and George, and Ginny, all throwing pillows at me, at the same time."

"Pillows are very different from spells used in fights, and from dark magic," the girl replied.

"Whoa, Lestrange! We are not using dark magic on each other - or at all. We are here to learn Defense  _ Against the Dark Arts _ !"

"Sometimes the best defense is an attack," Harry said. He had heard that in a movie, and it kind of made sense now. If he could have made Voldemort drop down dead that day in the forest, he would have been in control of everything. "And we are not using real spells right now, dark magic or not. Once we learn how to cast shields, though… we can start using some of the spells like the ones we'll learn in class," he added the last bit when Ron's expression did not change.

" _ If  _ we learn anything in class," Cassiopeia said. "And dark magic is just magic like any other kind, Weasley. It's just more... wild.  _ You _ should know that," then she narrowed her eyes, "Say someone was holding your sister a hostage, pointing a wand and threatening her, wouldn't you use dark magic to save her?"

Harry didn't know where the dark magic thing had come from, but he could see the point that Cassiopeia was trying to make.

"I would use a  _ Stupefy _ ," Ron replied.

"That can be blocked," Harry said.

"I know that!" Ron said.

"And then, after that, the person would have killed your sister already," Cassiopeia said.

Ron remained in silence for a few moments, staring at the floor, his face concentrated, as if he were solving a particularly difficult puzzle.

"Bloody hell. When you two put it like that… but it's not like anyone is going to threaten my family, so there’s no reason to even think about stuff like that. You're both paranoid."

Really? Harry would bet that Ron wouldn't say that if he knew that Voldemort was back.

Cassiopeia, with her Dark Lord loving relatives, might be safe, and Harry had no idea where he stood with Voldemort - he’d survived a forced encounter with the wizard, but that didn’t say much. Ron, however, was someone whose family would be against all the Death Eaters and their leader, and because of that, they were a target.

"Let's start this then," Harry said. "You against us, to begin, Ron. Between Cassiopeia and me, the first to be hit by a spell changes place with you."

And they began to practice. Ron mostly just had time to dodge the spells cast by Harry and Cassiopeia, and the ones he cast were off their targets.

Despite it being study, and the seriousness behind training, the Slytherin found himself enjoying the mock fight. Ron moved a lot, and Harry's and Cassiopeia's aims weren't exactly good. That was a good way to learn that simply knowing an incantation wasn't enough in a fight.

Cassiopeia was the first to be hit by a spell cast by Ron, a purple light struck her right shoulder.

"That was lucky," she said, walking to stand against the boys. "But at least now you two can learn how to actually cast and dodge at the same time."

The three of them remained at that for almost an hour. Eventually, all of them had already fought alone against the other two, more than once. Practice continued until they only had half an hour to get back to their dormitories.

Even as sleepy as he felt, Harry tried to remain as alert as possible, listening in for suspicious sounds. Fortunately, the walls were silent, as they should be. It wasn't much, right, to hope that they would remain that way.


End file.
